


to meet a chosen fate

by freosan



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn is not a bag of daemons, Arranged Marriage AU, Cultural Misunderstandings, His Imperial Highness Ardyn Aldercapt, Lucis won the war, M/M, Noctis has a harem, Noctis is not the Chosen King, does not know what he is in for, effectively anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-03-07 00:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freosan/pseuds/freosan
Summary: The long, ugly war comes to an end with an uneasy peace that is to be sealed with a royal wedding between Ardyn (the normal human prince of Niflheim, healing powers optional) and Noctis.Naturally he's less than happy about this. It means leaving his home and his life to marry someone far from his own age, and going to live forever in a hostile kingdom where he's sure to be humiliated and abused. But for the good of his country, he is willing to make the sacrifice and endure whatever might happen to him.Him being Ardyn, naturally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [the kinkmeme prompt in the summary](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7627566#cmt7627566)!
> 
> This was originally posted on the kinkmeme in nine parts. However, it's a big concept to play in, so I intend to expand it out a bit as I write. This first two chapters don't have many changes but I expect to go well past the end of what was posted to the meme.
> 
> Thanks to [sinistra_blache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistra_blache/pseuds/sinistra_blache) and Tankens for encouraging me as I got through this the first time. 
> 
> Niflheim worldbuilding is becoming my favorite thing to do so suggestions and comments are more than welcome! Come visit me on tumblr @freosan. I lurk a lot but I don't bite.

 

The rift in earth      that God’s hammer struck

Thence came the wyrm      that fearsome creature

Bellowing scorn      of all His devoted

And in its rage      destroyed ten thousand. 

 

The men of mist      rattled sword and shield

And war demanded      to honor regain.

 

A chief there was      of wisest counsel

Who knew the manner      of calming beasts

Could not sit quiet     when the news he heard

And told his king,     ‘Send the purest maid’.

This ancient wisdom      quells raging fires.

 

The word went out     to a thousand churches;

All maidens must     to the high seat come.

So shall the priests     choose the best among them

And her shall send      to wed winged fire.

 

As straight as ash      the wise chief’s daughter

Set out to meet     her chosen fate.

In fire they met      in earth he laid her

The raging one     learned peace anew.

 

Purest of soul     is the dragon’s wife

She cries her grief     for her long-lost land

Alone at dawn;     the earth’s winged offspring

Shall never hear      his beloved’s pain.

 

 

 

His Imperial Highness Prince Ardyn Aldercapt, Duke of Eusciello and Protector of Tenabrae, is on the way to his wedding.

The trip is not long, a few hours by dropship. Ardyn thinks that to be properly poetic it should be a longer and more dramatic journey; their nations have, after all, been at war for much of the preceding  thirty years. It seems anticlimactic that his mode of travel to their reconciliation should be so pedestrian.

He doubts that Lucis would send their only prince in a dropship with a handful of retainers, if it were he who was to be married off to a foreign land. But the Lucian prince is much more valuable to his people than Ardyn is to Niflheim, close relative of the Emperor or not. When the negotiations took place, Emperor Iedolas was very clear that Ardyn’s value as a bargaining chip was more than he’d ever expected out of his eldest nephew.

By that time there was nothing Ardyn could do to prevent the marriage going forward. If only he'd been the one to negotiate with Lucis; if only he'd healed more soldiers, saved more of his people; if only he'd taken up the battle standard instead of the healer's staff at the start of this war. Surely there was somewhere in this hellish timeline that he could have made a better choice.

It is unbefitting of an heir of Niflheim to engage in self-pity of this caliber. But Ardyn has only this short time of travel to allow all these gloomy thoughts to remain at the top of his mind; once he has arrived in Insomnia, he must present the perfect image of a royal fiancé. He has made a deal with himself: he will allow himself to wallow until he can see the great Wall of Lucis through the dropship windshield. Then he must pick himself up and carry on.

"You look like you're headed for your own funeral."

Ardyn looks up. Commander Aranea stands before him, arms folded, feet apart to counterbalance any sudden movements of the ship. She looks comfortable here as Ardyn is not. Much of her career has been spent on these ships, leading unprepared and unwilling men to glory or doom. Ardyn supposes the current circumstances are not very unusual for her.

"He might be. Who knows what a wedding ceremony is like for these people," Loqi comments from the front of the cabin. He is sideways on the seat reading a novel, and looks utterly unconcerned for Ardyn’s potential gristly fate.

"I doubt they'll kill me straight away," Ardyn replies. "I believe the times of the major sacrifices are ordained by their gods. It could be a few years."

"Do you qualify as major? I thought that was the kings they sacrificed when that happened."

Ardyn shakes his head. "I shall hope I do not meet their requirements immediately."

"Don't sulk," Aranea snips at him. "You have a duty."

"And perform it I shall, to the best of my ability," Ardyn assures her. "But His Majesty my uncle is not so cruel as to demand that I be  _pleased_  about it."

Aranea looks down her nose at him, a practiced expression of disgust that he imagines must be devastating to the young men she typically commands. It has very nearly no effect on Ardyn, except to make him consider smiling. He decides against it.

"Leave the melodrama to the Lucians," she says. "All you have to do is marry this Prince Boytoy and get on with your life."

His life will be confined to the Lucian capital, their  _Insomnia_ , if he is lucky enough to be allowed to leave the palace. Ardyn does not even like the name of the place. The language sounds like insects humming, all sibilants and nasals and no variation of tone. He imagines that the city will be similarly dreary and lifeless. "I have yet to see him smile in any photograph," Ardyn sighs. "He will no doubt meet me at the altar with a scowl."

"Does it matter? He's pretty enough. You consummate and then never speak to him again. They won't  _actually_  sacrifice you." Aranea cocks her head in an exaggerated parody of thoughtfulness. "Until you're not useful anymore."

"Or until they think he's one of them," Loqi adds, helpfully. "They kill each other off all the time."

Ardyn runs his thumb over the gold embroidery on the wrist of his red shirt. All the clothing he's packed for this trip is brilliant shades of red and gold set off with white; he suspects that he'll have little chance to wear color again and he intends to make an impression. "I hope I don't assimilate so quickly."

Aranea snorts. "You'll stand out in every crowd," she predicts confidently, and gestures at his hair. "Even if you adopt that funeral shroud the King wears, you'll be the brightest thing in the whole country."

Ardyn is not certain he wants to stand out. Standing out gains him attention, which he has no real objection to, but it also makes him a target. It would be easier if he were dark and blue-eyed, like the rest of the Lucian royalty. Perhaps he could slip into the shadows that way. But since to hide will be impossible, he intends to wear his colors proudly.

 

—

 

The Insomnian Citadel is smaller than he expects, after a life spent in buildings on the scale of Zegnautus Keep. It is obviously  _meant_ to be impressive, however. The beam of light shooting from the center of its arranged towers, supporting the Wall, is undeniably so. But knowing what he knows about the power that supports it, Ardyn feels only a creeping unease.

The dropship hovers just outside the courtyard, and Ardyn draws himself up to his full height, back straight, shoulders back. His honor guard do the same, Loqi to his left, Aranea to his right. Their small squad of attendant MTs fall into line behind them in perfect formation with armored boots clanking in unison against the dropship floor.

Ardyn feels very nearly safe, but he knows it is a lie. The moment he is  _married_  he will be entirely alone.

The dropship hatch opens slowly, or perhaps time has slowed for Ardyn in his dread. Even the air of Insomnia feels thick and hot, oppressive, as it rushes in to greet them. Aranea glances at him but Ardyn does not allow his expression to flicker. He must remain pleasant, friendly, inoffensive. He will not give the Lucians any reason to reject this peace offering. His country, his citizens, cannot survive another round of Lucian aggression, and he will not allow his own feelings to bring one down on their heads.

He proceeds down the hatch at a steady, sedate pace that does not reveal his unusual gait. He and Aranea had agreed; no sense in allowing the Lucians to know of his physical weakness before they have to. His retainers follow closely and his MTs remain exactly six steps behind.

There is a car waiting for them. It is painted a shining black, and the windows are likewise tinted dark; the whole machine has an elegant, sweeping look to it that Ardyn finds unfamiliar and futuristic. The men and women in attendance are dressed in black and silver, head to toe. It makes for a somber image.

What minor attempts he makes at conversation during the ride are cut off with short, polite answers; it is well enough to know that the Lucian guard is trained to be respectful, but it does little to distract him. Instead he looks out the window, consciously attempting to appreciate the wonders of what he is told is the most modern city in all Eos. It is indeed a beautiful city, thoroughly crowded with humanity. To visit it, he thinks, would be a delight.

But all too soon the lights and sounds of the city give way to the small oasis that is the Citadel. An armored, human guard salutes them as they pass through the final checkpoint. The driver races them down the street and pulls them into the courtyard with a dramatic and sudden stop. The small display of showmanship is pleasing.

Ardyn’s first glimpse of his fiancé in the flesh comes as he sets foot on the flagstones of the Citadel courtyard. The boy stands at the top of the stairs leading to the palace,  dark eyes unreadable as he looks down at Ardyn and his entourage.

“The Dragon of Lucis,” Loqi mutters. “I thought he’d be taller.”

“Doesn’t matter when you’ve got gods on your side,” Aranea says. Ardyn can feel their tension. He does not have the same military experience they do, and has not faced any of these men directly before, but he picks up on the danger, all the same.

Beside the Prince, to his right, stands the man Ardyn knows to be his most trusted advisor. He suppresses a shudder as he takes in the man's lean form. There are only rumors, he reminds himself, of the advisor's sadistic tendencies, but as he looks at the professionally blank face he can believe them.

To the Prince's left is a boy about his age - so much younger than Ardyn - with the bright blonde hair and pale skin of Ardyn's countrymen. Ardyn knows it to be a lie. The boy may have Niflheimer blood in his veins but his loyalties all lie here, with the god-kings of this morbid cult.

Behind them lurks the wall of a man known as the Shield. Ardyn is used to being the tallest in any given room, but this man stands a full head taller than his Prince, and nearly twice as wide. 'Shield' indeed. His reputation is more that of a battering ram.

Between Ardyn and his fiancé are arranged two lines of royal guard - the Crownsguard, all with dark hair, dressed in black on black, their eclectic jackets embroidered with what at first seem to be elaborate florals but on closer inspection turn out to be skulls - and the King of Lucis himself.

Ardyn approaches to a respectful distance, stops, and bows at a precisely calculated angle: deep enough to show respect, not so deep as to seem a supplicant. "Your Royal Majesty," he greets the King.

"Prince Ardyn," the King replies. "You honor Lucis with your presence."

"The honor is mine, and Niflheim's," Ardyn responds smoothly. This dance, the formal greetings and hollow flattery, he has known since he was a child. His tongue takes on the responsibility without much input from his brain.

He is led up the steps, and the Crownsguard part with the efficiency of MTs to allow him and his entourage to pass. Ardyn wonders what it takes to train this many men and women to move like foot-soldiers. How many who are not suited for the work must they go through? He knows how many wind up in his hospitals just from officer training. But it is only a fleeting thought. He has more pressing concerns.

King Regis steps to the side, allowing Ardyn and his future husband their first unimpeded view of each other. “My son, Noctis Lucis Caelum.”

The boy looks Ardyn up and down without a flicker of expression. Ardyn has seen more interest on the faces of professional card sharks. The silence goes on for several seconds until Ardyn cannot bear it anymore, and bows slightly, extending his hand. Ah, and now he gets his expression; the faintest trace of a frown mars the flawless porcelain face. His Royal Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum, however, is constrained to participate in this charade as much as Ardyn is. He slips his right hand into Ardyn’s.

His hands have the calluses of a swordsman, however delicate he may appear, and that at least Ardyn can respect - if he does not think too hard about the things the prince has done with his accursed weapons. Ardyn kisses his knuckles, his lips only just brushing skin, and lets himself linger as he speaks. “My dear Prince Noctis, I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

Prince Noctis pulls his hand back sharply. “Yours too,” he says, but Ardyn doubts that he means it.

The King wisely gestures for their escort to carry on before this can become embarrassing, and Ardyn and his retainers fall into line to the left of Prince Noctis’s retinue, to proceed slowly into the palace.

At any other diplomatic event it would now be time for a grand feast, with negotiations to begin in the morning. As it is, the negotiations have long since been completed, Ardyn’s fate signed and sealed. So they will save the feast for the wedding night; and instead, once the little parade has filed past the palace doors, Prince Noctis himself approaches Ardyn. His advisor and his Shield follow him like deadly shadows. The little blond hangs back, his eyes darting between Ardyn and his MTs.

Prince Noctis gives no greeting other than a nod. “I can show you to your rooms,” he says. “And Dustin will take your MTs to their quarters.” 

The Guard in question steps up from the line and offers a Lucian salute. “At your service, Highness,” he says.

“Thank you, Dustin,” Ardyn says. “I shall send General Loqi later to make sure they are properly situated.”

The Guard is more expressive than his prince; confusion crosses his face briefly. Is it so strange that Ardyn should want to be sure his servants are well taken care of? But the man only says, “Of course, Prince Ardyn.” He gestures for two more of the Guard to follow him, and Ardyn tells the MTs to go where they are bid.

Prince Noctis regards Ardyn coolly until the soldiers are well out of the hall. Of course, they are not alone; as royalty, they will rarely ever be, and there is little enough trust between their nations that they will certainly not be left to themselves now. But it feels more intimate, this moment, perhaps the first moment when they are not on show for any but their most trusted.

“Highness,” the advisor says quietly, when neither prince seems willing to break the silence. “We should let Prince Ardyn rest.”

It is the first time Ardyn has looked the man full in the face, and he is briefly and privately horrified to see the scars that splay out under his visor. Behind the shining glass, one eye is cloudy and the other is closed. Are the kings of Lucis so cruel as to prevent even one of their closest retainers from being healed?

“Right,” Prince Noctis says. His eyes haven’t moved from Ardyn. “It’s a long trip from Gralea. This way, please,” he adds. 

The words are polite, but Ardyn senses the insult on them. He isn’t surprised. These youths will not expect him to keep up with them; he is not a young man anymore. He smiles, and says, “My thanks, Prince Noctis.” 

The prince gives him a nod, and turns, leading the way. Ardyn makes brief, pained eye contact with Loqi, who shrugs. They really have no better option than to follow silently to the suite of rooms where Ardyn and his retinue will stay.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” the prince says without inflection, as he opens the doors.“If you need anything, let Ignis know.”

“I am at your service,” the blind advisor says.

Ardyn knows that to have human servants is a normal thing here in Lucis, but to be offered such service is a little bit of a shock. Especially from the man he’d thought was Prince Noctis’s right hand. A show of respect? Or a threat?

There is, of course, nothing stopping it from being both.

“Thank you both,” Ardyn says. “I appreciate your concern, but I will need nothing more than my luggage and a meal.”

“Your luggage is in the rooms already, and I’ll have a meal sent up right away,” Ignis tells him. “I’ll visit in the morning as well. Please, don’t hesitate to send for anything you might need.”

“We’ll do that,” Aranea answers for them, her tone icy as the depths of Ghorovas Rift. “Give us the evening to get the prince settled.”

“Of course,” Ignis says. “We bid you goodnight, then.”

Prince Noctis echoes him, as do his retainers. 

Ardyn only gives a brief bow, and gestures for Aranea to enter the rooms first.

“That man is dangerous,” she declares the moment the doors have shut behind them. “Don’t take your eyes off him, Ardyn.”

“The advisor? Yes, he is the one to watch out for, isn’t he,” Ardyn says. “Though it seems the king of Lucis will not allow him to watch out for himself.”

“I thought they had healing magic,” Loqi says. “They’re always using it on the battlefield.”

“That’s what I’ve been told, as well,” Ardyn replies. “Though that wound didn’t look as though any had ever been tried.”

Aranea says, “The Shield is covered in scars. Maybe they don’t bother if it’s not life threatening.”

That would make some amount of sense, Ardyn thinks. Entirely against his own oaths as a healer, but it fits in with what he knows of the martial Lucian culture.

They settle in to the rooms quietly, after that, finding their bags and unpacking what they need. Ardyn’s trunk has been set at the foot of the large bed in the main bedroom. The ceiling is high and one wall is almost entirely filled with a window of colored glass. It looks cold, Ardyn thinks, though he knows that the temperatures here don’t ever come close to a Niflheim winter.

The meal they are sent is elaborate but flavorless, three courses of increasingly depressing attempts at Niflheim cuisine. The soup has beets in it. Ardyn taps a chunk of potato and watches it bob in what looks like a bowl full of blood, and then sighs.

“My grandmother used to make soup like that,” Loqi comments. “We all thought it was gross. Do you think this is what they eat?”

“I hope they have better taste than this, or it’s going to be a very long marriage,” Ardyn says. 

“You’d better hope it’s a long marriage however they feed you,” Aranea says sharply. She’s eaten all of her own food. For once, Ardyn envies her her fighter’s appetite. She sees his expression, and relents. “You’ll be able to give the cooks recipes eventually. Just put up with it for now.”

Ardyn sighs again. He’s being overdramatic but he doesn’t care. “I shall be putting up with a lot, it seems.”

 

—

 

When Ardyn rises the next morning, it is late, and there is breakfast waiting in the receiving room. This is simpler and better than last night’s meal. Ardyn devours most of it, though he wishes for hot coffee and toast instead of tea and rice.

When breakfast is through he sends Loqi to check on the MTs. He hopes they’ve been treated decently. They have no true consciousness, but they do respond to stress and pain, and Ardyn has never been one to let those serving him suffer unnecessarily.

He bathes and dresses while he waits for Loqi to return. Aranea helps him with the brace for his hip that he can conceal beneath his trousers, and with the fastenings of his formal clothing. There are fewer layers than yesterday but his jacket has more buttons on it than Ardyn really prefers. Though he knows it’s what’s necessary to make an impression, he has always been more comfortable in a healer’s voluminous robes.

When Loqi re-enters Ardyn’s rooms, he has Ignis in tow, and his anger is barely contained. Ardyn knows how fast Loqi can move when he’s in a snit, but the blind man seems barely winded and is only a half-step behind the general. Ardyn wonders if there is some magic of the Lucian kings that makes him able to keep up with the sighted. If so, it would go some way towards explaining why they cared so little for the physical injury.

“Whatever is the matter?” Ardyn asks, sitting up from the chair he’d been curled in.

“The MTs are running out of charge,” Loqi informs him with no preamble. “There’s no power supply for them.”

With no charge, the MTs’ armor will become immobile rather quickly. They don’t _need_ to move, not the way living beings do, but Ardyn knows that they find it distressing all the same.

The advisor bows precisely when Ardyn stands to face him. The man’s better eye nearly makes contact with Ardyn’s, drifting only slightly to his left. Ardyn wonders if it could still be healed; it looks as though the eye itself is still intact, if heavily scarred on the cornea. The other half of his face may be a lost cause but Ardyn could at least try.

He will not be offering such a service now, however. He has his own attendants to consider before he wastes energy on Prince Noctis’s. “I must insist that appropriate charging stations are provided immediately.”

Ignis lifts his remaining eyebrow. “Surely they can be stored until they are sent back to Niflheim?”

“That is not an option,” Ardyn insists. _Stored_ , as though they were machinery. Is that how the Lucians treat their animals? He cannot believe it is how they treat their servants. “Not to mention they are not to be sent back.”

Ignis frowns, very slightly. “I assure you, your Highness, you’ll be well protected by the Crownsguard. There’s no need for MTs here.”

“Crownsguard or not, I shall require attendants,” Ardyn reminds him. MTs are not good company, but they are competent, and it suits Ardyn better to have them running his petty errands than to interact with this man more than he must, servant to the Crown though he may be. “Please see to it.”

Ignis’s better eye narrows, but he bows slightly. “Of course, Prince Ardyn. Allow me to make some calls. I’llreport back later in the day.”

“I shall expect you,” Ardyn says.

The advisor makes a quick retreat, shutting the door carefully behind him, and Ardyn is left to his own devices for the rest of the morning. He has no wish to go wandering around the palace making a fool of himself, but likewise, he has little to do aside from think.

Ardyn never expected to marry for love. Indeed, he never expected to marry at all. He has been more than happy for his adult life with the occasional friend-turned-lover and attractive half-stranger, and no ties of this kind weighing him down. It was why he had been such an attractive proposition when it came time for Lucis and Niflheim to make their accords. He would break no hearts and lose no political goodwill. Instead, Niflheim could offer a well loved son, a learned leader, a gift with no strings attached.

And what did they get in return? Lucis’s heir, a callow youth with no heart in him, Ardyn has heard him described. Having met him, yes, that description seems apt. It’s not what he would have chosen for himself, had he ever thought to make the choice. A fiery woman like Aranea, he can imagine. Someone who would flatly refuse to bear him heirs and bring the wild of winter hunts into their bedroom. Perhaps a man, a fellow scholar, romantic and kind with poetry on his lips. He can even imagine himself with a younger partner, someone to bring light and laughter into his life and relieve the weight of his work.

But instead, he has Prince Noctis, son of a man who sold his soul for power, raised to seal his own fate the same way. It’s no wonder the country cares so little for life and limb when it has such men at its helm.

These thoughts occupy him, on and off, for much of the morning. Aranea comes to discuss his life choices with him more times than is helpful. Loqi plays target practice with Ardyn’s hair and bits of balled-up paper for about half an hour before Ardyn tells him in no uncertain terms to amuse himself elsewhere.

He can hear them speaking in low, angry tones from the receiving room. He hopes they are not speaking about him, but suspects that they are. Such a thought is unfortunately not hubris in his position. He has no real desire to know what they are saying, however, and instead he stares out his enormous window.

His dismal mood is interrupted by a knock on the door around noon. He lets Aranea get it, not wishing to interact with anyone, even whatever servant they sent up with lunch. He is somewhat surprised when he hears her say, “Ignis.”

“I’ve brought lunch. Prince Noctis asks if he may call on Prince Ardyn this afternoon,” Ignis’s smooth Tenabraen accent comes from the receiving room. “He’s most anxious to meet with him.”

“I’ll ask his Highness,” Aranea says. She’s never been given to the flowery language of the court. “Give me a minute.”

Aranea knocks and enters the bedroom in one motion. “Your prince actually wants to talk to you,” she says. “Are you going to let him?”

Ardyn considers refusing. It would be a small way of establishing some control over the situation. But it would be only an illusory control, and he would have to listen to Aranea’s pointed comments for the rest of the day. “Very well,” he says. “It would be good to stretch my legs.”

Aranea nods, and goes to inform the advisor. Ardyn thinks he catches a flash of approval in her expression.

The young prince arrives at Ardyn’s rooms an hour later, dressed casually in a fitted shirt and jeans. It is almost disrespectful but Ardyn finds this suits him better. If it weren’t for the relentless black of his clothing and the elaborate skull printed on his shirt, he might even be appealing.

“Ardyn,” he says in greeting. Ardyn doesn’t mind the lack of title, exactly, but he does wish the prince had asked his leave. “I wondered if you’d like a tour of the Citadel? Just to, you know, get out of the room for a while?”

“I would enjoy nothing more, Prince Noctis,” Ardyn lies through his teeth.

The prince offers Ardyn his arm, and Ardyn takes it. He would rather not, but he doesn’t think his leg will stand for much of a walk without support, and he doesn’t particularly want to get out his cane. When the prince leads him into the hallway, Ardyn finds that instead of the advisor and Shield, as he’d expected, only the prince’s little blond sycophant is attending them.

“Hi, Prince Ardyn!” the boy chirps. Ardyn nearly rolls his eyes at the ingratiating smile pasted on his face.

“This is Prompto Argentum, one of my personal guard,” Prince Noctis says. “Gladio and Ignis are busy, but I asked him to come along.”

“Of course. A pleasure,” Ardyn says with a smile. The boy achieves good posture long enough to bow, and then slides back into his easy slouch.

“So, where do you want to see?” Prompto asks him. “We figure we better show you the throne room, and we can swing by the gym after that. The Kingsglaive should be training around then. Iggy said you were worried about the security, so I figure, you’d probably like to see that, right?”

Iggy? Ignis. Nicknames. The boy had better not try giving Ardyn one. “I have the highest confidence in your security,” he tells them both. “I’m merely concerned for my attendant Magitek units. I had hoped to ask, Prince Noctis, if you’d found a way to charge them.”

Prince Noctis frowns slightly. “I think Iggy was working on that, yeah,” he says. “Something about not having the right kind of power supply.”

“I can go have a look at ‘em too, if you want,” Prompto offers. “I’m pretty good with that kind of machinery.”

“Niflheim machinery?” Ardyn asks mildly.

The boy stiffens, and nods. “I’ve had a couple chances to work with it, yeah.”

It’s odd, but Ardyn thinks he almost recognizes his face for a moment. Something about his nose, the curve of his jaw - but then, no, it’s gone. Ardyn sighs at himself. It’s just because the boy is Niflheimir, he’s sure. He’s so eager to find something familiar here.

“Then I am sure they’d be happy to have your attention,” he says. “Thank you.”

Prompto smiles, a little nervously. “No problem.”

Prince Noctis leads them from the living quarters down to the throne room, first, matching his pace to Ardyn’s. It’s very polite of him. He lets Ardyn stop at every painting or interesting window they pass, and while he doesn’t seem to know much about the histories, he does know at least the name of each pictured King and where they sit in the line of Lucis Caelums. Ardyn will have to find himself a history of the line at his next chance, and match deeds to names and faces.

The throne room is a work of art in and of itself, with sweeping staircases leading up to the throne of Lucis. It is in the process of being decorated for the upcoming wedding with flowers, potted plants, and red carpets. It’s a truly majestic place; but Ardyn’s eye is drawn to the massive geode, large enough to swallow a man, settled on the first landing above the hall floor.

This… _rock_ must be the Crystal. What else would be put in such fine surroundings? He fancies he can hear it humming malevolently. It must be emanating _something_ , to make the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up like this.

“Yeah, they brought it out for the wedding,” the prince says, when he catches Ardyn staring. He looks away uncomfortably before he continues. “We’ll say our vows under it.”

“So we shall,” Ardyn says. He’s transfixed. That very stone has consumed the souls, he knows, of every one of Prince Noctis’s direct ancestors, an unbroken line going straight back to the founding of Lucis. And here it sits, unguarded, the stuff of nightmarish tales set out in the bright light of day.

“Careful, uh, Prince Ardyn,” Prompto chirps from behind them. A cheerful voice like that should break the spell, but Ardyn only finds it grating. “If you stare at it too long it’ll give you a prophecy or something.”

“Does it speak?” Ardyn asks without thinking. Of course they claim it speaks; he is unclear on whether it speaks with the voice of dead kings, living gods, or some power all its own.

“Sometimes,” Prince Noctis says. “When the right person’s listening.” Ardyn can feel his gaze like a weight on the side of his face. He is looking for Ardyn’s reaction to this display of power and Ardyn fears he has given him the wrong one.

“I think you’re creeping your fiancé out, bro,” Prompto says in an aside to Prince Noctis.

Ardyn must get himself under control. He does not feel the need to have his emotions guessed at by Prince Noctis’s attendants… especially if they’re going to get it right. “I’ve never seen such a reservoir of magical energy before,” he admits. “I do find it rather overwhelming, I must admit.”

“Yeah, I get that. Let’s go visit the training arena, maybe?” Prince Noctis suggests. Ardyn is grateful to him for guiding them away, then, without any further need for Ardyn’s input. Perhaps his Prince does have some sympathy in him after all.

They walk away from the throne room, doubling back on their tracks before heading back in another direction. Ardyn is beginning to get the lay of the land, he thinks. He could find his way down from his rooms, now, and back out of the palace.

It isn’t long before they arrive at a hall with one side open. Ardyn hears the soldiers before he sees them, the shouts and crashing of drills and exercises. Prompto runs ahead of the two of them and to the railing, already lifting a camera to take pictures of the space below. Ardyn and Prince Noctis follow at a more sedate pace.

From the railing, they can see the Kingsglaive as they run about in their training. The arena is built several stories tall, filled with obstacles and odd pieces of masonry; a practical training ground, if you are expecting to fight in a destroyed urban environment, as Ardyn supposes they must have towards the end of the hostilities. There are perhaps twenty men and women dressed in casual black and grey fatigues. Ardyn’s eye is drawn to a tall figure in a tank top - a familiar behemoth of a man.

“Is your Shield also a Glaive, then?” Ardyn asks Prince Noctis. If he’s to understand this court, he had better start immediately.

“No. He’s Crownsguard,” the prince replies. Crownsguard, Kingsglaive… Ardyn knows these names, though he’s never heard of anyone encountering the Crownsguard in battle outside of Lucis. “He trains with the Glaives, though. They have the king’s magic, too, so it helps him get used to fighting with me.”

As Ardyn watches, one of the Glaives flickers out of existence. He tries not to let his shock show on his face when the same woman reappears at the other end of the training field. Soon after her strange flight, two men and then another woman follow her with individual flashes of bright light. Ardyn can see that they throw knives first, and follow the weapons’ paths.

Ardyn has heard tell of the things that Lucian magic can do, but not being a soldier himself, he’s never witnessed them. Perhaps he never quite believed it until he saw it with his own two eyes.

“Never seen warping before?” Prince Noctis asks him. A small, mirthless smile curls at one corner of his mouth. Ardyn did not like his blank expression; he likes this less.

“I have not had the pleasure,” Ardyn replies. He leans on the railing of the balcony, instead of Prince Noctis’s arm, for a moment until the prince takes the hint and extracts himself.

“I can show you what it’s like, if you want,” the young man says. “It can be fun if you’re ready for it.”

“Perhaps one day,” Ardyn says. He cannot imagine himself flying through the void like that. But the Kingsglaive don’t seem to be any worse for wear.

At the edge of the field, the Shield takes off his shirt and produces a sword from empty air. The flash of light that precedes the weapon is blue, rather than the paler color of the Kingsglaives’ magical abilities. The weapon itself is like nothing Ardyn has ever seen anyone wield outside of movies - nearly as tall as its wielder, as wide as any three lesser swords, decorated with elaborate figuring at the guard. It looks ceremonial, unusable. And yet the man swings it with one hand with no apparent effort.

But Ardyn has heard tales of how the prince and his men fight. Like the warping, it is strange to see but not unexpected. It is the tattoo in the shape of some bird, wrapped around the man’s shoulders and draped over most of his upper body, that is truly giving him pause.

The Shield turns to them, raises his sword, and bows. Prince Noctis waves, and behind him, Prompto waves with a great deal more energy.

“Kick her ass, Gladio!” the boy yells. Ardyn can just see the Shield grin and then he’s rushing forward, to clash blades with a suddenly appearing Glaive.

“This’ll be a good fight,” Prince Noctis says, smiling. “Crowe and Gladio have been trading wins for two months now.”

The most emotion the prince has shown yet and it’s because of a fight. “Gladio is your Shield’s name, then?” Ardyn asks. 

“Yeah. Gladiolus Amicitia. We didn’t get to introduce you last night, huh?”

No, because Ardyn was packed off to his rooms like a scolded child. “I did not have the pleasure,” Ardyn says. He is quiet for a moment, watching the Glaive and the Shield clash. The Shield does not warp, as the Glaive does, but he moves well enough, and when his sword makes contact it crashes like thunder.

Ardyn watches this display for a time. It is impressive, the way they fight; he can see why Loqi is always bemoaning the loss of this or that piece of Magitek armor. But he finds himself distracted as the man twists and turns and he sees that the tattoo covers his entire back.

“The bird over his shoulders,” Ardyn asks. “What does it mean?”

“It’s because he’s my Shield,” Prince Noctis answers easily. “They always have the same tattoo. Even his dad does, not that I’ve ever seen it.”

“It certainly does set him apart,” Ardyn says quietly. Prince Noctis doesn’t hear him, as his Shield has scored some kind of hit, and he and Prompto are celebrating. 

Ardyn attempts to fight the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach with logic. Prince Noctis did not _say_ that the tattoo was a slave mark. Surely, there are other explanations for putting an unmistakable brand on a man whose purpose is to silently fight and die for his king.

When the fight is over, the prince leads him back to his rooms. On the way, Prompto shows them both a few pictures he’s taken; pictures of the fight, and pictures of Ardyn and Prince Noctis watching it. Prompto has captured them both in profile, standing close but not quite touching, looking down at the fight below with solemn expressions. They look, Ardyn thinks, like a pair of rather cruel kings.

 

—

 

The next two days are a mess of preparations, fittings, and small decisions that Ardyn would rather not make. It’s a shame, because he does love a good celebration. At home, he often held parties at midwinter and midsummer, and would spend weeks leading up to them on the details. A wedding is exactly the kind of event he ought to be thoroughly excited about. Aranea reminds him of this frequently.

“Just enjoy the attention,” she advises him, one night when he’s slumped in a chair despairing over the number of questions he’s been asked about the food. Ardyn no longer cares about the food. As far as he’s concerned, every attempt of the Lucians to cook something palatable is doomed to failure from the start.

“I am _sure_ you’re not using my unhealthy need for validation against me,” Ardyn gripes. The words are his uncle’s, and they make Aranea smile.

“I use whatever I can get my hands on. Get up, that advisor will be here in twenty minutes and you don’t want him to see you being a dramatic little bitch.”

Ardyn waves at her to dismiss her, but nonetheless, he forces himself back upright.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding and the funeral of Ardyn's dignity.

The wedding day comes all too soon.

Ardyn dresses in gold and red, forgoing white entirely for this occasion; he does not want to invite commentary on the appropriateness of the color, if indeed that is a tradition that Lucis still upholds. The jacket and trousers are smooth silk, and the knee high black boots are Lucian make, a present from his fiancé. They have the red soles that, Ardyn has heard, are a sign of royal favor in this country. He has also heard that the Lucian royalty wears red soled shoes to represent the blood that they’ve walked through. He is not _entirely_ sure he believes that, but it does come to mind as he laces them on.

Loqi, Aranea, and an honor guard of Kingsglaive accompany him on the walk from his rooms to the throne room. Ardyn says nothing, concentrates on keeping his expression pleasant. He cannot, as Aranea keeps pointing out, look as though he’s on his way to his own funeral. He will show only happiness, and the newspapers and gossip magazines of Lucis will not be able to fault him for that, at least.

Prince Noctis stands waiting for him at the base of the Crystal. It is a majestic image, but not an enticing one. The light from the Crystal feels oppressive, almost tangible in its intensity, and Ardyn can see little but the brightness and the dark figure of his soon-to-be husband before it. For king and country, he reminds himself sardonically, and forces himself slowly down the aisle.

When he reaches Prince Noctis, they take each other’s hands, only the second time Ardyn has ever touched his bare skin. He looks into his groom’s face. The prince has his chin held high, and his eyes are dark as the ocean under a new moon. He wears the heavy golden necklace that was Ardyn’s engagement gift to him; the rubies and sapphires set into it are the only offset to his solid black clothing.

The priestess begins speaking, and Ardyn turns his attention to her, listening for the cues he’s meant to respond to. He doesn’t know what any individual word in the vows means. He’s memorized the flow of the phrases, and he’s seen the official translation, but there was too much to do to study the grammar of Old Lucian before he came. So he swears to be Prince Noctis’s fire and shelter, and to stand always at his side, so far as he knows, and all the while the great Crystal pulses with light.

Prince Noctis’s oath is different; he swears to be his sword and shield, if Ardyn remembers the translation correctly. Ardyn doesn’t miss the irony of this recent enemy of his kingdom swearing to protect him. It makes him smile, bitterly, as they press their lips together in an approximation of a kiss. Ah, but then he has to endure the last piece of the ritual. Noctis unclasps the cloak from around his own shoulders, and Ardyn bows his head to receive it. It settles around him, bringing the scent of sandalwood and salt water. Black velvet envelops him completely.

Ardyn feels as though he’s been wrapped in a shroud. He barely hears the priestess pronounce them wed - though he hears his new name, _His Imperial Highness Ardyn Caelum_. Caelum, meaning ‘sky’. Not Lucis Caelum - Light Sky. That _light_ is reserved for the true blooded of the royal family. Ardyn thinks it fitting that he bear the single name. There is not much sky to speak of in Insomnia, compared to home.

They toast each other, afterward, and sip from the same cup of champagne. Aranea slaps Ardyn on the back and congratulates him as though he had truly found someone at last, and Loqi gives the kind of speech just shy of insolence that only his good looks and his heavy Niflheimir accent allow him to get away with. It makes Ardyn laugh, at least, and for that he gets a disbelieving glance from his spouse. He smiles politely at Prince -

Well, he supposes he should drop the title now.

He smiles politely at Noctis, though the smile is perhaps a little wider, a little less calculated than it should be. Noctis only frowns, and looks into their shared cup.

The celebration goes on long into the night. The two of them politely accept congratulations from more dignitaries than Ardyn can count, both Niflheimir and Lucian. Noctis does well with these conversations, Ardyn notes with relief. He had feared his sullen spouse would need him to take up all the slack. But he remembers all the names, and smiles politely, and seems genuinely interested in everyone and happy to be where he is.

At one point, he even slips his arm under Ardyn’s cloak to lay it on his lower back, making Ardyn use all his diplomatic training to avoid plastering his shock all across his face. He thinks for a moment that Noctis may actually be flirting with him, just a little; but then the hand slips away, and Ardyn realizes that the gesture was for the benefit of a photographer standing at the edge of the crowd.

Noctis spends more time that evening in conversation to Prompto and Ignis than he does to Ardyn; but Ardyn can’t fault him, because outside chit-chat with those wishing him congratulations, he speaks almost exclusively to Loqi. Aranea leaves him early in the night. Once she convinces herself that the security at the event is tight enough, she decides to amuse herself trying to distract Ignis. Ardyn can only wish her luck.

There are fireworks, at the end of the night. Ardyn can’t remember the last time he sat to watch fireworks. He and Noctis are guided to a two-person bench in the gardens for the event, and they sit side by side, close enough to touch. Ardyn’s black cloak spreads out underneath them both. Only Loqi, Prompto, and Gladiolus attend them. Under any other circumstances, it might be truly romantic.

A short time into the show, Ardyn turns to his husband with the intent of making some small comment about the skill that went into it; perhaps to start a conversation that will be, if not scintillating, at least a little more photographer-approved than sitting in silence. Instead his words die on his lips as he turns. Before him - not an arm’s length away from him, in fact - his husband gazes up at Prompto, his hand curled around the boy’s waist, the cheek that Ardyn can see faintly flushed in the flashing lights. Prompto has eyes only for his prince. He doesn’t see Ardyn watching as he strokes a lock of Noctis’s fine black hair back from his face.

So that’s how it is. Ardyn can hardly fault the prince. Were he in Noctis’s place, he would certainly choose an attractive friend of his own age over a near stranger of twice that. Ardyn regrets, deeply, that he will have to take the young men from each other for the night. He does not imagine it will be pleasant. But at least after this first night is over, he can leave them to each other.

It’s also some comfort that the prince may have experience in this area. Ardyn had feared he would not, and he would be not only an unwelcome partner, but an unwelcome deflowerer as well.

When the fireworks are over, Noctis’s Shield escorts them back to Noctis’s rooms, a hulking shadow. The man is technically Ardyn’s Shield as well now, but Ardyn thinks Noctis is welcome to him after tonight. It is one of the Lucian’s distasteful customs that there be witness to the consummation of a royal marriage. Ardyn is lucky, it has been patiently explained to him, that there need be only _one_ witness.

Ardyn sheds the cloak the moment the doors close behind them. Witness or no, he can’t stand the feeling another second, like the black velvet is about to swallow him. He looks at his new husband, and sits on the bed, and mechanically removes his elaborate boots. They thud at the foot of the bed one after the other. Ardyn begins to undo the many buckles that hold his jacket in place, and is halfway through the series before he realizes there is no accompanying shuffle of fabric from where Noctis stands.

He looks up to find Noctis staring at him. His spouse hasn’t so much as bent to remove his shoes.

“Do you intend to stand there all night?” Ardyn asks. Noctis lifts his head a little. He looks surprised to be addressed.

“Sorry. I should give you some privacy,” he says, quietly.

Ardyn sighs. So he will have to talk Noctis into this, as though he didn’t already bear enough guilt. “I know I can’t be as interesting as your blond friend, but I shall try to give you a memorable wedding night, at least,” he says. Noctis’s eyes widen, and then narrow as he realizes what Ardyn knows.

“We don’t have to do this,” Noctis says. “Gladio won’t say a word.”

The Shield has taken up a parade rest at the door, staring at a fixed point above Ardyn’s head, and he nods curtly at Noctis’s words.

“We cannot leave our marriage unconsummated,” Ardyn says, making his voice as flat and uninflected as his husband’s. “That is why we have a witness, is it not? I shall give no one any reason to declare it invalid.”

It may well be, given what Ardyn has seen of the Shield’s position here, that he would not even be believed, and that only Noctis can give the lie to their marriage. But Ardyn does not trust him that far and perhaps never will.

“Fine,” Noctis says, and starts taking his boots off.

Ardyn busies himself with the rest of his own clothing, eventually leaving himself naked on the bed. When he dressed this morning, he left the hip brace off, knowing he’d need to reveal himself later in the day. He feels very exposed, and rather slimy about it, as though he’s flashing some unsuspecting victim on the street rather than undressing for his own spouse.

He averts his eyes as Noctis shucks jacket and shirt and trousers. He’s faster at it than Ardyn was. The Lucian clothing is simpler, with fewer layers and frills. In almost no time at all, Noctis is approaching him, wearing only a pair of black silk shorts.

He has more scars than Ardyn expected, mostly scattered around his chest. Ardyn watches him as he comes closer, almost close enough to touch, and then stops. Ardyn’s eyes have wandered, but Noctis’s remain firmly fixed on Ardyn’s face. Now, he blinks and looks down at Ardyn’s body, as Ardyn reaches out to take his hands.

He lets Ardyn pull him down onto the bed, bracketing Ardyn’s thighs with his knees, his head with his hands. Ardyn places his hands on Noctis’s waist and strokes up his sides, feeling out muscle and bone. Noctis is beautiful, and under other circumstances Ardyn would have been thoroughly pleased to take such a man to bed. Even now, his body is reacting slowly to Noctis’s, as his back arches at Ardyn’s touch.

Noctis pushes his fingers into Ardyn’s hair. Quite without meaning to, Ardyn tilts his head into the touch. Then Noctis sighs, and draws his hand back. “I don’t think I can do this,” he mutters.

“I won’t be offended if you’re thinking of someone else,” Ardyn tells him. “Anything that makes it easier for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Noctis says. He licks his lips, and swallows, and Ardyn aches to sink his teeth into the perfect line of his throat, an urge he knows he cannot give in to under his Shield’s watchful eye. He trails his fingers down the side of Noctis’s face, tracing the path over his cheek that Prompto touched earlier. His hair is fine and soft as silk threads. Noctis dips his head and Ardyn can see only that hair, and his shoulders, shaking slightly.

“Okay. Fine. Get me hard,” he says, the bite of command coming into his voice despite his pose of submission. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ardyn runs the back of one hand down Noctis’s chest, not lingering, only aiming to slide his fingers under the waistband of his shorts. He prefers to draw things out, given the chance. He’d gladly tease Noctis until he was cursing - he doubts he can get his new husband to beg - and desperate. That, he’s sure, would be a sight to see. Now, as he wraps his hand around Noctis’s slowly stirring cock, he thinks only of what will make this fast and simple.

“Tell me what you like, Noctis,” he says. “I wish only to bring you pleasure.”

“Harder,” Noctis says. His head leans down so his hair almost brushes Ardyn’s chest, and Ardyn hears his breathing go ragged as he obediently changes his grip. He’s starting to respond, swelling in Ardyn’s hand, and Ardyn is glad he can’t see his face. He doubts he would like to know what his husband feels about this.

It’s not too long before Noctis is moving, thrusting into Ardyn’s hand with shallow little jerks of his hips. Ardyn keeps up his pace and, with his free hand, strokes along Noctis’s side, under his shorts to cup the curve of his ass. It’s the most he thinks he can get away with, so long as Noctis is still refusing to touch him.

“How would you like me?” he asks. His lips brush Noctis’s hair, where it falls over his face. He dares to let his fingers dip into the cleft of Noctis’s buttocks. Noctis hisses and lifts his head to look into Ardyn’s eyes.

His young prince is still so hard to read, and Ardyn fixates on the quick flick of his gaze down Ardyn’s chest, the way he bites his lower lip and then releases it. “Stay here,” Noctis says, and then he’s gone, off the bed and away from Ardyn leaving him with only the absence of heat.

Ardyn levers himself up on his elbows, watching Noctis walk to the dresser at the other edge of the room. He has scars on his lower back, too, Ardyn sees now, thicker and darker than the ones on his chest. While he’s rummaging in a top drawer, Ardyn surreptitiously licks the fingers of his right hand, tasting salt and musk. Yes, this could be good, if Ardyn could have his way with Noctis. He would use his mouth, and his hands, for as long as they both could stand it before he took him, and find out what Noctis’s cold expression turns to at the edge of orgasm.

He thinks of that, of having Noctis spread willing beneath him, and he watches Noctis as he strips out of his shorts and reveals himself fully, and finally his body responds. He takes himself in hand as Noctis walks back to the bed, a frown marring his face - before he sits again he hesitates, seemingly unwilling to touch Ardyn again.

“Perhaps it will suit you better if I turn over,” Ardyn suggests, the slightest bite of sarcasm in his voice. If he means to parallel the treaty, it would suit best if Noctis bent him over the desk at the front of the room and fucked him raw, but that is perhaps too much passion to expect out of Lucian nobility.

Noctis says, “If you want,” and Ardyn takes it for an invitation. He lies motionless with his face pressed into the down-filled blankets. It is long enough before Noctis touches him that it come as a surprise; he hisses when fingers graze along the back of his knees. The moment he makes a sound, the touch vanishes, and then the bed dips as Noctis climbs up it.

Noctis is gentle enough, but he doesn’t linger, any explorative desires he might have cut off by Ardyn’s reaction to his touch. His movements are perfunctory as he parts Ardyn’s legs and slides a slick finger into him. Only when Ardyn gasps quietly and clutches at the sheets does he ask, “Have you done this before?”

“Yes. Though the last time was some time ago,” Ardyn says. Noctis withdraws, and Ardyn wants to protest - nearly does, in fact, before Noctis’s hand returns to him, two fingers and more lubricant this time. After his first slip, he’s silent, as Noctis prepares him. It truly has been some time, but Noctis, he finds, is practiced. A twist of his wrist and Ardyn feels as though he’s been filled with lightning. His legs shake no matter how he tries to stop them. Noctis reaches out and puts a supporting hand on the inside of his thigh, but no more than that.

“I’m more than ready for you, dear Noctis,” Ardyn murmurs. He is. He wishes to feel Noctis on top of him, surrounding him, invading him; he wishes for those sculptor-shaped lips to kiss his shoulders. As Noctis climbs on top of him, spreading his legs farther, he closes his eyes.

Noctis takes him slowly, giving Ardyn time to adjust around his cock. Ardyn tries his best not to make any sound that might disturb whatever imagining Noctis is using to get through this. As Noctis settles into his rhythm Ardyn rocks back, carefully, matching the thrusts. Noctis grips his lower back, for balance, and Ardyn’s bad hip aches, but he ignores it. He would not disturb his husband’s focus. The faster this is over, the better.

He does not expect that he will release himself, imagining Noctis will want rid of him as soon as his part is done, but before long Noctis falls forward, bracing himself before he lands on Ardyn’s back with a hand by his shoulder. His thrusts stutter, and Ardyn feels hot breath and the delicate trace of black-silk hair on his shoulders. The quiet moan that comes out of his throat is against his will. Less still does he allow the shudder of his body when Noctis reaches down and strokes his cock. Still it comes, and Noctis’s grip is firm, as he thrusts into Ardyn, and makes Ardyn fuck into his fist.

Ardyn maintains enough control that he spends silently, the only evidence of his release the sudden slip of Noctis’s fingers around his cock. His husband follows close after him, groaning into his shoulder. Ardyn feels the slightest brush of lips against his spine and accepts it as the closest they will come to a kiss of passion.

When it is done, Noctis rolls off of him, lying sprawled on the bed until he catches Ardyn’s eyes on him. Then he sits up hurriedly, glancing between Ardyn and his Shield. As near as Ardyn can tell, the other man hasn’t moved a muscle since he took up his position.

“You should stay here,” Noctis says, folded over himself at the foot of the bed.

Ardyn experiences, yet again, a wave of regret. “Yes. I shall not subject you to the rumor mill this early,” he replies. Sitting up is difficult, his body aching in ways that _it_ does not find unwelcome.

Noctis only gets up and disappears to the bathroom. Ardyn hears water running for a long time. When it comes to his own turn, he’s quicker, but by the time he returns to their bed, Noctis has already fallen asleep. The Shield is still at parade rest at the door.

“You’ve done your duty,” Ardyn tells him, attempting for a conciliatory tone. “There’s no need to stay the night.”

“I’ve got my orders,” the Shield says. Ardyn is too tired to pretend shock at his curtness. In private, he suspects, he will be exactly as well respected as Noctis intends he should be.

“And your orders are?”

“I’ll stay the night.” The Shield crosses his arms and leans back on the doors. He certainly looks as though he could stand exactly where he is until the sun rises.

Ardyn sighs. “Very well. Do take the foot of the bed if you grow tired. I’ll not have anyone exhausting himself on my account.”

The Shield only grunts in response. Ardyn nods to him and shuffles his way back to the bed, lying far to the side away from Noctis.

It is not easy to sleep under the Shield’s watchful amber eyes, but Ardyn does, eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

Ardyn is awake well before Noctis, the next morning, and he rises and dresses in about half of his wedding attire, and leaves his sleeping husband and their watchful Shield in the bedroom. He tries not to think too much about the events of the night prior, though he does spend a long time in a hot shower that morning, easing the ache from his muscles. He heals himself only as much as he must to prevent further damage to the musculature around his hip. Perhaps he is making a martyr of himself, but he cannot justify erasing all of the pains.

Aranea is up and about, eating her strange Lucian breakfast, when Ardyn leaves the shower. She gives him a solemn nod as if to a wounded soldier.

“So you did it?” she asks.

“I should rather say that he did me,” Ardyn replies.

She snorts a laugh. “I’d give you a medal, but Loqi would just pull rank,” she tells him dryly. Despite her sarcastic tone, the sentiment, Ardyn thinks, is real. His Commander respects bravery, wherever it is found, and she has decided that this is how he is called to display it. Perhaps she has a point.

“I’d not be permitted to wear it,” Ardyn reminds her. “I would only ask you to take it home with you, and perhaps place it on a shrine decorated with my likeness.”

“The day I build a shrine to you is the day the Dragon closes the Rift up behind him,” Aranea says with a shake of her head. “You’ll have to survive on my good intentions.”

“They shall be a succor to me in my times of hardship.”

“Right, whatever you say.” Ardyn watches her stack her bowl and plates on the serving tray they were brought in on; he notes there are only two sets of dishes.

“Where has the General gone to?” he asks.

Aranea folds her arms and kicks back in her chair. “ _He_ had better luck with the Lucian boys than I did. You’d think they’d never seen a woman before. Or felt, in the case of that advisor.”

“Why, Commander, don’t tell me he failed to succumb to your natural charms.” Ardyn knows her pout is only for show; he doubts that she would have gone to one of the Lucians’ beds for the night even if they had responded to her. Aranea prefers efficient liaisons, and even that is not something she seems to miss much when she is on duty.

“I don’t know how they’ve managed to keep the line going this long,” she mutters. “You’re going to fit _right_ in.”

“At last, something I can truly say I have in common with my adopted country.”

Aranea rolls her eyes at him. It makes Ardyn feel much more at home.

Loqi does return later that morning, in his dress uniform still but in spirits high enough to make up for it. Rather than try to offer Ardyn congratulations or platitudes, he hands him a very large bottle of very good vodka, evidently pilfered from the wedding gifts.

“You’ll need it more than Regis will,” he says. Ardyn is inclined to agree.

In the late morning he bids his General and his Commander farewell and watches as they march up the hatch of the dropship. They don’t look back when they leave. Well, and why should they? He is only their exiled Prince.

He really must get a handle on his self-pity. He broke his own bargain with himself not a day after he arrived here, and he continues to find more things to be bitter about.

When Noctis visits him, in the early afternoon, Ardyn speaks lightly and smiles much, hoping that Noctis will take the unspoken apology. He asks where the library is, and if he might use the computers; Noctis gives him a small, Insomnian-make computer, which he calls a phone. They are able to spend a few minutes discussing the technology while carefully avoiding the question of why such devices are not available outside of Insomnia. It’s not so awkward as it could be, although that is not a high bar to clear.

“I should tell you, Prompto thinks he has your MTs figured out,” Noctis says as they hit a brief lull in the conversation. “They’re charging up right now. He said they’ll be ready to go this evening.”

“That certainly is good news,” Ardyn says, and he means it. “Shall I go and pick them up?”

“You can, or Prompto offered to bring them up here,” Noctis says. “I think he kind of likes them.”

It will be a hot day in Vogliupe, Ardyn suspects, before a Lucian native will admit to liking MTs. Perhaps the boy is more influenced by his Niflheimir ancestry than Ardyn thought.

“I shall let him have his time with them, then,” Ardyn says. He would like to speak to the boy, too, and he shares that thought with Noctis.

“Why?” Noctis asks.

“I owe him an apology, I think,” Ardyn says. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I did take his partner away from him last night, didn’t I?”

It’s an odd thing. When Ardyn met him, he was sure that Noctis’s dark eyes had no emotion in them. But now he sees that when he is unguarded, his eyes open up, becoming the deep blue of the sky at dusk. It’s a beautiful and unusual color, and Ardyn thinks perhaps he would like to see more of it.

Unfortunately this is brought to his attention now because suspicion has has shut down Noctis’s face as surely as a thunderstorm clouds the sky.

“I don’t know what you think you know,” he says, “but I’m not going to let you hurt him.”

“Noctis,” Ardyn says, patiently. “I meant what I said. Kings often have… unofficial consorts,” he adds, when Noctis does not look mollified. “I would only ask his pardon and let him know that I mean the two of you no harm.”

“Prompto isn’t a second choice for me,” Noctis says, lightning flashing in those storm cloud eyes. “If things had been different…”

“I had no one like that,” Ardyn admits. That is true. “I cannot hope to understand how this feels for you.” That part is a lie; Ardyn knows well the pain of being forced apart from one’s chosen lover. It is because of that memory that he speaks truly when he says, “You have my word that, so long as I can turn a blind eye to it, I shall.”

The storm parts, a little, as Noctis turns over his words. “You’re not going to break us up,” he says.

Ardyn nods. “I wouldn’t dare to try.”

“You expected something like this.”

“I expected very little save to be wed to you and set aside quietly after a few months,” Ardyn admits. “Come now, dear Noctis. Neither of us entered into this arrangement out of our own desire.”

The corner of Noctis’s mouth turns down. “But you still… last night…”

Ah. So they are to speak of that. “I shall not ask you to share your bed with me again,” he says quietly. He will not apologize for doing his duty, and he does not think he needs to explain himself further. Surely Noctis, who whatever else he is, is still a prince, will understand that Ardyn could not let his position here be any more insecure than it already is.

Noctis nods. The silence grows long and difficult between them. Ardyn does not wish to kick his husband out of the room, but he can think of nothing else that would end this. Eventually Noctis comes to the same conclusion. He stands up, nods, and leaves Ardyn’s room, the only sound heralding his exit the click of the latch.

It does not bode well for the rest of their marriage if this is what transpires between them after less than twenty-four hours wed. Ardyn considers going to collect his MTs himself, and perhaps hiding himself in the library for a few hours or days. He is not given the chance, however. He’s in the middle of lacing up the boots that Noctis gave him - for all they seem to be designed to evoke fear in anyone who sees them, they are extremely comfortable - when he hears a sharp tap at his door.

He makes his visitor wait for a moment while he struggles to his feet. His hip is not cooperating with him today, even with the brace. When he answers the door, he is surprised to find that it’s Noctis’s advisor.

“Ignis,” he says, “please do come in.”

“Mr. Scientia,” the man says, as he makes his way past Ardyn. He stands in the middle of Ardyn’s room with his back turned for a moment, looking for all the world as though he owns it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My appropriate form of address is Mr. Scientia,” Ignis says. He spins on his heel to face Ardyn, gloved hands folded behind his back. “I felt I ought to let you know, since you are so insistent on doing things in the _proper_ way.”

Ardyn truly did not expect to have to speak of his wedding night even once, and to have to speak of it twice feels like some sort of divine punishment.

“Mr. Scientia,” he says, in what he hopes is a calming tone.

The chill of the advisor’s blind glare cuts through him like the Glacian’s wind. “Forgive me, Prince Ardyn, but I must return to his Highness at once. I merely came to inform you that your Crownsguard detail has been posted. You will have three shifts of two Guard each, at your service day or night. When you are in your rooms, they will remain outside your door. When you leave, they will attend you.”

The words are entirely proper. Ignis’s expression does not even flicker as he informs Ardyn that he has been provided with jailers.It’s rare that he’s ever been threatened so thoroughly and effectively with hardly a slip in protocol. Ardyn is nearly impressed.

“Thank you, Mr. Scientia,” he says, smoothly. “I appreciate the attention to detail.”

“Please inform the Crownsguard if there is anything else you require,” the advisor says, and just like that, Ardyn is fired as his charge. He bows stiffly with his hands at his sides and makes to leave.

On his way out, he adds, “Your MTs will be arriving shortly. Best hope they will be enough to protect you.”

Ardyn pokes his head out the door as he leaves, smiles politely to the two Crownsguard posted there, and watches Ignis’s ramrod-straight spine as he walks at a sedate pace down the hall. He doesn’t look back even once.

When he turns the corner, Ardyn closes the door and rests his forehead on it, feeling his heartbeat pounding wildly with adrenaline. _Now_ he is impressed.

It puts a damper on his plans for the afternoon, however. He does not feel prepared to have Crownsguard following him around the palace; he will have to find a way to slip out, later. For now he will attempt to do something useful. At least, that’s his thought, when he first pulls out the phone and logs into the account that Noctis has set up for him. He can catch up on what little he is now allowed to know about his former estate.

There’s nothing classified, of course. Ardyn has lost access to any such systems he might have had, purely to ensure that the only information he brings to Insomnia is inside his own head. So his business, such as it is, is minimal. There will be no reports on troop movements and no requests for his input on new legislation. A short email from his chamberlain informs him only that the estate is doing well and his black chocobo chicks are close to hatching. Too soon, he finds there is nothing to hold his interest. He finds himself scrolling through Insomnian news media instead.

There are more pictures than he’d like of himself in it right now. He lingers on one where he is gazing down at Noctis, who has his hand set at the small of Ardyn’s back. The photographer got his shot, then. Ardyn is holding the champagne glass loosely in one hand, and his expression is positively tender as he watches his groom smile and chat up some Lucian minor noble.

Ardyn sighs at himself. As protective as Ignis is, Ardyn hopes that he doesn’t hear about this picture; but with the level of competence he has so far displayed, he doesn’t see how he could have missed it. No wonder the advisor thinks Noctis needs protection from his husband.

Ardyn is not usually one for social media, and maintains only the presence that he must, but he loses some time scrolling through the posts about the wedding. It’s strange to see an outside perspective on it. Most bemoan Noctis’s sudden ineligibility; more than he’d like wonder who his new husband is, this “old guy” who has taken him off the marriage market. Out of morbid interest - perhaps he is learning to fit in here - he presses on until he hears a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Ardyn calls out, putting his phone down.

“Hey, Prince Ardyn!” The cheery tone is Prompto’s. “I got your MTs here.” The announcement is almost unnecessary; Ardyn can hear the clanking of their formal armor in the hall.

“You were able to fix them after all,” Ardyn says as they file in. It’s a relief to see them, honestly. He pats their metal shoulders as they walk by.

“Uh. Yeah? At least I think so?” Prompto says nervously, scratching the back of his neck. Ardyn can hardly blame him for his nerves. The boy doesn’t seem the type to scream at Ardyn and there are only so many emotions one can have when face to face with a romantic rival.

But Prompto seems focused on the MTs. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to look at them earlier, I only got a day off this morning. The adapters you brought would’ve been fine, but we have a different current of electricity here, so it took a while…”

Ardyn looks the MTs over, and they present their backs with their power connectors for his inspection. Ardyn pops the casing on NH-02141 and inspects the neat welding. “And you were able to wire them up?”

“Yeah! It’s not so hard once you know how the connections work. I think I can get them a better supply in a couple weeks, so they don’t have to spend so much time plugged in.” He sounds very proud of himself about it. Ardyn is pleased too; he’s glad that someone else here has spared some thought for his attendants.

“Lovely,” Ardyn says, sitting back. “Please, have a seat,” he offers. Then, to the MTs, he says, “You three, informal dress. Armor in the wardrobe, please.”

The MTs' armor goes first, of course, leaving them in the tight, black, light-blocking suits that they wear for indoor duties. Their helmets disconnect last, revealing their human-like faces and close-cropped hair. Ardyn's MTs are from three separate generations, so the cloned bodies that made them share little genetic material, but still they look more like each other than like any human Ardyn has ever met. They each have translucently pale skin occasionally cracked by black veins, and eyes that glow red from within. They settle into rest formation and Ardyn nods and turns back to his visitor, fully intending to ask him to stay for a while.

Prompto has backed, slowly, halfway across the room, his ever-present smile gone. And now, having seen that same bone structure only a moment before, Ardyn realizes where his sense of recognition came from.

"Twenty-one," Ardyn says. "Stop him."

Prompto is fast, but NH-02141 was quite literally built for speed. It is barely a flicker as it covers the distance between itself and Prompto, and it has its hands on both the boy's arms before he can react.

Ardyn, of course, is much slower, but Prompto waits patiently in the MT's grip, only his wide eyes betraying his fear. Ardyn reaches out and grabs the boy’s chin, making him look up and into Ardyn’s face. The blonde eyebrows go up in surprise.

“Hey, dude - uh, Prince Ardyn-” he starts. Ardyn shakes his head.

“Show me your right wrist,” he says.

Prompto goes pale and his face is the lightly sun-kissed mirror of NH-02141's. It is, really, all the confirmation that Ardyn needs. But he still snaps his fingers and gestures for the boy to get on with it. Prompto lifts up his hand, and Ardyn shoves back the black leather band he wears to reveal the serial number and barcode of an MT unit. The skin around the tattoo is scarred, but the lines remain plain as day.

Ardyn takes a few steps back, and Prompto - NH-01987, one of Twenty-one's close siblings - glares at him. “Prince or not, that was a dick move,” it says as it fixes its armband. "Let me go."

Ardyn gestures so that NH-02141 drops its grip. Prompto turns for the door, and Ardyn gestures again, and the rogue MT finds itself blocked by its fully-formed cousin.

"What do you want?" Prompto asks, turning back around.

“Does King Regis know?” Ardyn asks mildly.

“Yeah,” the MT says. It’s so plainly a lie that Ardyn doesn’t even remark on it; he waits, instead, until the glare crumbles into a miserable frown. “No. But Noct does.”

Ardyn can, to his dismay, believe that Noctis knows that he’s harboring a clone that should have been processed into an MT twenty years ago. It is harder to believe that Noctis can display such emotion as he showed this morning towards it. The bodies that are meant to become MTs do not have the full mental or emotional capacity of a human; they are developed to learn patterns quickly and to follow orders, and nothing further than that. Leaving this one to pretend that it has the full capacity of a human - it must have been terrible for it.

“And you are one of Noctis’s closest friends,” he says, slowly. “I wasn’t aware that an MT could be taught to mock humanity so convincingly.”

“Shut up,” the MT growls. “I’m at least as human as you are. So I was cloned, who cares?” It folds its arms and tucks its hands under its armpits, shielding itself and further hiding the barcode from view.

This one _seems_ remarkably human. But in twenty years, the prince could have trained it to do almost anything. Including, Ardyn thinks with some disgust, share his bed. He remembers the tender look that passed between the two young men on his wedding night. Even that appearance of devotion, perhaps, is possible to achieve.

“How long has he had you?” Ardyn asks.

“We’ve been _friends_ since we were in high school,” Prompto bites out. “Before that I had a normal family, okay? I was adopted but I was raised normally.”

“You were raised as a human.”

“I _am_ a human.” The failed MT gestures at Twenty-one, at Ardyn's other retainers. “So were they.”

Ardyn shakes his head. “The cloning process leaves only select parts of the higher brain functions intact,” he says. He knows this, because he recalls the reports from the initial experiments, the volunteers who self-destructed rather than live with the daemonic influence in their minds. “A human would die if they were made an MT, so they do not use humans.”

Prompto stares at him like he’s gone out of his mind. Ardyn tries again, a little more gently this time. “I understand that this may be difficult to hear, if you didn’t know before,” he says quietly. Sometimes one must hurt, in pursuit of a healer’s duties, but one does not have to enjoy it. “But I assure you, it will explain a great deal.”

It takes a step back from him, almost lifting its hands as if in defense. “Oh no. I saw where they’re made,” it says. “I know what you do to them. I’m not listening to this. Fuck you,” it adds, as it stomps out the door. This time Ardyn lets it go. He knows enough. 

The Crownsguard outside do not even move to salute as the MT rushes by them. They are not, after all, meant to mind anyone’s actions but Ardyn’s own. He locks the door when it closes, and he paces through the room once he is safely stowed inside.

The second confrontation, coming so close on the heels of the first, rattles Ardyn not a little. He is careful to get his MTs set up with their own personal charging stations, and ensure that they have what they need to do their own maintenance. Beyond that, now that he has been distracted from his news feeds, he finds that he has little to occupy him.

Well, perhaps spoils of war are meant to take pleasure in being stashed away until someone needs to prove a point.

He is is not expecting any further disturbances, because he’d forgotten that Noctis and his retainers invariably came as a set. But when he hears the banging at his door, that evening, he knows instantly that he’ll see the Shield’s scarred face on the other side of it. He answers it anyway.

“What the fuck did you say to him?” the Shield demands. He is more _direct_ then Ignis. Ardyn does not appreciate it particularly, not when aimed at him.

“Say to whom?” he asks icily.

“Don’t give me that.” Gladiolus is nearly in his face now, and Ardyn takes a step back and lets the door close. No need for his Crownsguard to see this. He tries to keep his composure; he isn’t used to feeling physically threatened.

“You are not the first person who’s come by to reprimand me today,” Ardyn tells him. “Mr. Scientia has already made me aware of Noctis’s opinion of my performance last night.”

Confusion crosses the Shield’s face. Ardyn wonders uncharitably if he’s used too many large words. But then the man grunts and shakes his head. “Yeah, Noct’s not the latest person you screwed up.”

Now it’s Ardyn’s turn to be confused; Gladiolus crosses his arms and waits for him to become enlightened. Frustratingly enough, the moment doesn’t come. The Shield has to point Ardyn in the right direction.

“Prompto? You want to tell me why he’s so damn pissed off right now?”

The _clone_? The Prince’s Shield is concerned about the emotional wellbeing of his master’s pet MT?

“It has a surprisingly strong range of emotional display,” Ardyn says, “but I doubt that it is actually ‘pissed off’.”

Ardyn doesn’t see the punch coming, which is ironic, as it lands directly on his eye. _Ironic_. Yes indeed. The impact may, in fact, have done something to his brain. He presses the heel of his hand to the rapidly forming bruise. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s whining as he breathes.

“MT units, attention,” he chokes out. Six points of red light appear around the room where the MTs have settled in for the evening. They unfold their mechanical bodies and walk silently towards Ardyn and Gladio. Ardyn stands up straight again as they flank him, hoping that his glare is as vicious as it feels.

The Shield lets out an aggrieved, animalistic noise and unfolds his fists. A moment later there’s a blue shimmer in the air around his hand as he pulls something out of the magical repository that Noctis’s retainers all use. Ardyn watches him with one eye and tries not to cringe.

“Take that,” he says, tossing Ardyn the small glass bottle. “It’ll heal the damage.”

Ardyn catches it, and puts it in his breast pocket. Then he closes his other eye and wills the white light of healing forth. It takes him a few moments to feel out the extent of the damage, the fractured eye socket and the extensive bruising. The Shield punches like the hammer of God.

“I am more than capable of healing myself, thank you,” he says, as he finishes knitting the last broken blood vessel together. The Shield folds his arms and watches, unimpressed.

“Prompto did you a favor, and you told him he wasn’t human. That about the size of it?” he asks.

“Prompto did good work,” Ardyn says. “I would ask you to pass along my thanks. I believe _he_ left too suddenly to hear them.” It feels strange, to refer to an MT that way, but Ardyn is more than happy to put up with it. He has no wish to be punched in the face again.

It doesn’t seem to calm the Shield. “I can’t kill you, and I can’t kick you out,” he growls. “But I’m gonna be right here.”

He reaches out towards Ardyn, and for one extremely tense moment Ardyn is afraid he’s about to be strangled. But all he does is straighten Ardyn’s scarf where it’s gotten slightly twisted around his neck.

“Remember that,” he says, and with a final glare at the MTs, lets himself out.

Ardyn has far too many threats to remember already. He closes the door once again, and resolves not to let anyone else in save perhaps King Regis himself.

It is unfortunate, but not, perhaps, surprising, that Noctis should set his Shield on Ardyn. Ardyn resolves to learn the lesson: he should not trust anyone or anything in this accursed country. It is somewhat strange that the MT was the pretext. Perhaps Noctis is sending him a message about that relationship. _Don’t tell anyone that I’m fucking a soulless body_ , Ardyn imagines.

Noctis should not fear. If this marriage falls apart, it certainly means war. Ardyn would not put up with this treatment for any other reason. He has seen the power of the Lucii, the extensive military full of magic users, and beyond that, the evidence of Lucian ruthlessness. No. He will not allow King Regis any excuse to march again. It is hardly a sacrifice, is it? One man’s loveless marriage for the security of an empire?

It is nothing. Ardyn will remain silent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever feel like committing to something is just tempting fate? The second I declared I would, definitely, keep a regular update schedule for these fics, real life slapped me in the face. My apologies! This chapter is short but I hope it reassures anybody reading that I haven't given up on this.

On the fourth day after his marriage, Ardyn picks up his phone and dials Aranea’s private number, the one he knows by rote. After several seconds of dead air, a screeching mechanical voice informs him that the call cannot be connected. He is disheartened, but not surprised. It would be pure folly of his Insomnian family to give him an open line to his own country, monitored though his rooms undoubtedly are. He’ll have to use less modern methods, perhaps. He pokes his head out his door, surprising his Crownsguard detail.

“I’d like to make a phone call,” he explains. “Is there perhaps a land line I could use?”

The Crownsguard look at each other, frowning. Ardyn wonders if they’re allowed to make decisions as unique entities rather than as a unit. It is uncharitable, he knows; they are surely not allowed to make decisions for themselves at all.

“There’s only the secure lines that I know of, your Highness,” the woman, Thaleia, says. “You could… ask Prince Noctis?”

Ardyn sighs. It would not be right to yell at her, but he still feels the anger flare up at the suggestion. “Then I suppose we are making an expedition.”

Noctis’s rooms are not too far away from Ardyn’s own. It is more than a little ridiculous that he has a detail of a Crownsguard and an MT to travel a few hundred feet down a hallway. But it is not as though he has a choice in the matter of the Crownsguard, and he feels safer even here with a trusted weapon at his back. So. The three of them march down the hallway slowly; Ardyn pretends it is for effect rather than for the sake of not knocking his hip out of alignment.

He knocks on his husband’s door with all the imperious attitude he can muster, but despite that, there is no answer. It is less surprising than the alternative, perhaps. It is the middle of the week and for all his other faults, Noctis has shown no sign of being indolent, and so he is no doubt hard at work somewhere, keeping himself occupied with the running of a country, as a prince should be.

Ardyn turns to begin the longer walk down towards the offices, but he does not get far. The way is blocked, rather suddenly, by a black dog. He pauses, and the dog squares up to him as though it might pounce. Ardyn holds up his hands in a placating gesture that rarely even works on humans.

The beast growls at him, its eyes glowing faintly red. Ardyn takes a step back and his MT steps forward.

“What is that creature?” he asks his Crownsguard.

The woman looks at him as though he’s gone mad, which is admittedly not an unfamiliar expression towards him. “Uh… a dog, Highness. It’s looking for Prince Noctis.”

Naturally, Noctis would be sought out by a hell-hound. Ardyn takes another step backwards and the dog growls again.

“I’ve never seen it that mad before,” Thaleia mutters. She has not gone for her weapon, Ardyn notes.

“It doesn’t seem to like me,” Ardyn says. “Such a pity.” The beast gives a snarling bark, twice, and then turns tail and bounds away. It disappears around a corner in a few strides.

The beast did nothing, not really, and yet Ardyn finds himself shaken. Creatures with eyes of fire are common in the myths and wilds of Niflheim. They are not pleasant beings. Ardyn does not recall that specific animal being one of them, but the glow is surely a sign of a being that is devil-touched.

“Does it know where Noctis is?” he asks.

Thaleia shrugs. “It usually finds him, so I guess it must. Want to follow it, your Highness?”

“Let us make the attempt, at least,” Ardyn says.

He was wise to hedge his statement. Ardyn sends NH-02141 to run after it - Thaleia does in fact start for her weapon when it takes off - and it reports no sign of the creature on either side. It did move very fast, Ardyn supposes. And the halls of the Citadel are many and long.

“I’m afraid I’ve gotten turned around,” he tells Thaleia when they’ve arrived at the cross-corridor where the dog disappeared. “Would you mind leading the way to Noctis’s office?”

Thaleia nods, and leads him in the opposite direction from the one the dog took. Ardyn is completely unsurprised when he finds that Noctis’s offices are empty.

“We can go looking for him, your Highness.”

Ardyn shakes his head. “No, I think not. I shall attempt to contact him later.”

—

All further attempts to find his husband meet with similar success, though thankfully without the hell-hound, and Ardyn does not see Noctis again for two days. The Prince of Lucis is so often tied up in meetings, or with his head buried in a stack of reports, or off wherever it is that he goes that makes hell-hounds hunt for him, that Ardyn has not been able to catch him at any point. When he finally does, it is because he is summoned for dinner.

The invitation, of course, is only for appearances’ sake. Ardyn is sure of that when he receives it, and more sure when he arrives at the appointed dining room to find his husband flanked by his advisor and his Shield. He certainly cannot expect to have any sort of truly intimate conversation in their company.

Noctis stands when Ardyn enters. It is the kind of chivalry that is perfectly correct, and yet infuriating; Ardyn is not a damsel to need protection. He does not, at least, offer to pull Ardyn’s chair back for him. Ardyn settles himself at the other end of the table with some pleasantry that Noctis only nods in response to.

When the meal is served, Noctis waits for Ardyn to eat first, another small, correct action that only serves to underline how very out of place Ardyn is. They speak only a little, and far between. Of course, Noctis can hardly tell Ardyn of the work he does, and Ardyn has no activities to speak of.

At some point, Noctis asks, reluctantly, if there is anything he can do to make Ardyn more comfortable. Ardyn swallows back his first three sarcastic answers before he comes up with one that might actually be granted.

“I wonder if you could see your way clear to allowing me a phone line,” he says. “I would like to call up a few friends at home.”

Noctis frowns. Ardyn thinks for a moment he is going to say no, in which case Ardyn can guarantee his husband’s retainers will not like his response. But Noctis only looks at his plate of rice and says, “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Ignis leans down from his stiff position behind Noctis’s chair to whisper in his ear. Noctis nods and straightens in his chair. “They log all the calls, though. Just so you know.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Ardyn replies. “I appreciate it.”

Ignis’s thin-lipped expression at the hint of Ardyn’s pleasure is gratifying in itself, and that goes some way towards making Ardyn feel better about the whole ordeal.

—

The promised phone line, however, does not appear. Ardyn is reduced again to what short messages his friends can send him through email. They are heavily self-censored and short, so as not to become corrupted or intercepted as they pass through Niflheim's unreliable wireless network. He did not realize, before he came to Insomnia, how truly backward Niflheimir technology is. The Magitek is well enough, and certainly they don’t feel the lack of so much social media as Ardyn seems to have access to here, but it keeps shocking him how seamlessly his cell phone has worked its way into his life.

In the absence of human companionship, Ardyn turns to the Insomnian Royal Library, and even here the new technology makes itself useful. At home Ardyn would have had to copy every page of every book he was interested in on a scanner, or by hand, were he in a particularly rural area. Here he can simply snap pictures and know that they will be there for him later, when he is for some insult no longer welcome in the library. It’s a small luxury but an important one.

He has been here for six hours, long enough that his bored-looking Crownsguard escort has changed, and skimmed through at least three Lucian medical texts. He is after any reference to magical healing; he still has small flask that Noctis’s Shield gave him after nearly breaking his skull, and it would be remiss of him not to study it before experimenting with it.

If he’s to be of any use to the people of this country, he must understand their current systems of medicine. It is not easy, he’s found, to convince people to accept an unfamiliar form of healing, unless they are in such crisis that they must or else die, and he prefers that patients allow him to help before their condition reaches that point.

He’d come up against that in Galahd, when he had been dispatched to help the civilians after a skirmish at the border of the Wall; their gods had more in common with Lucis’s Hexatheon than with the single deity to whom Ardyn is devoted, and more than one of them had died before Ardyn was able to convince them he only wished to help. Insomnia is no battlefield, but Ardyn learned his lesson too well to ignore it even in peacetime.

With his hand in his pocket, Ardyn turns the small glass vial in his fingers. It feels like the sound of humming against his skin. This is magic, he knows well, but it is not magic as he knows it; not his own divine blessing or the twisted, screeching power embedded in the core of a Magitek machine. Lucian magic, no doubt dependent on the Crystal or on one of their strange multiplicity of gods. What the books have told him, thus far, is merely that such power exists, and not whence it comes.

He stands, stiffly, and gathers up his materials. When he’s found the original locations of his books and re-shelved them, he seeks out the aisle labeled _Religion_ and works his way down the stacks, letting his eyes wander over the titles. Both his written and his spoken Lucian are very good, but the ornate typefaces on the older books often give him pause as he tries to translate the shapes of the words into the strokes he knows.

He finds nothing immediately relevant in the first aisle, though he does make a mental note of several titles for later reference. When he turns the corner, he finds he is not alone.He knew that the library was busy enough he could not hope for total solitude, but he did not at all expect to find Noctis’s Shield here, dressed in casual (though royal black) clothing and slouching to study the shelves below his eye level.

The Shield notices him within a moment, of course; he would not be much of a bodyguard if he did not. His expression, when he recognizes Ardyn, is distinctly less than friendly. Ardyn lifts his chin and steps forward to continue his perusal of the books. Surely he has nothing to fear at the moment; the Shield can’t be reckless enough to overstep his bounds in public. Though, if he does, Ardyn will have learned one more thing about his own position in the Citadel.

But the Shield says nothing; instead, he merely acknowledges Ardyn with a nod, and turns back to the books.

Ardyn is not surprised at the lack of polite greeting, or at the Shield’s presumption, but it rankles. “Good afternoon,” he says, falling back on politeness.

Gladiolus lifts an eyebrow and without further reaction returns to the titles.

“I beg your pardon.” Ardyn says, automatically humbling himself. He is rather annoyed at himself for the reaction, and beyond that, that the Lucians have placed him in such a position as to feel the need to prostrate himself before a bully like Gladiolus. “I suppose you cannot speak to me.”

“Nah. Just don’t want to,” Gladiolus says, without even looking Ardyn’s way.

“Then I shall leave you to your books,” Ardyn replies icily. He does not retreat from the aisle, though perhaps he should. He will not be chased out of the library that is part of his - technically - rightful home. He cannot, however, focus enough to understand the heavily stylized script of the titles.

“Why would you think I couldn’t talk to you?” the Shield asks after they’ve tensely stared at their individual shelves for some time.

Ardyn jumps slightly when he speaks, and the Shield frowns at him. Ardyn attempts to cover and only finds the truth. “I had assumed, due to your station, that you would be subject to the whims of your Prince in this matter.”

Gladiolus snorts. “He already knows I don’t like you,” he says. “He wouldn’t bother. What do you mean, ‘my station’?”

One day perhaps Ardyn will cease being taken aback by the Shield’s bluntness, but he certainly has not managed it yet. “Your…” he waves at Gladiolus’s shoulders, in an approximate sketch of the wings of his tattoo. “The mark is beautiful, but very clear in its meaning. Only MTs and slaves have such tattoos.”

Gladiolus draws himself up and clenches both hands into fists, a ready stance that has Ardyn shuffling backwards as surreptitiously as he can manage. “I’m nobody’s fucking slave,” he spits. “I am Shield to the Prince of Lucis and I swore an oath of my own free will to serve him. Do you think _everybody_ -“

Gladiolus seems to realize, then, that he is crowding Ardyn into the books behind him, and he stops and visibly wills himself into calm. He does not, Ardyn presumes, want to cause a scene in public. Thank the Lord for small blessings.

“Would someone like me _be_ a slave, in Niflheim?” Gladiolus asks.

Ardyn shakes his head. “It is an outdated and barbaric tradition. No one in Niflheim has owned slaves in several hundred years.”

“But I would’ve been, back in the day.”

“Yes,” Ardyn says.

The Shield retreats a little farther taps his fingers on the nearest bookshelf, looking as though he’s trying to figure something out. “You know Lucis has had full emancipation since the late 1800s AE, right?”

Ardyn stares at him. The claim is outlandish, considering that every Niflheimer knows the stories of Lucians taking slaves from their conquered lands. 

“You didn’t. Hang on, I’m gonna get you some books.”

Ardyn is silent, a safe cover for his confusion. He watches as the Shield leaves the row and follows him, slowly, so he can watch the aisles that he chooses to go down. The neat typeface labelling the shelves is easy enough to read: _History_ , _Political Science,_ and then for some reason _Romance_. Gladiolus returns with a trio of books, two large reference volumes and one small, ratty paperback.

The reference books are simple enough to understand: _The Royal History of Lucis_ and _Power in the Age of Magitek_. Ardyn wonders what a Lucian writer would know of Magitek, at first, but when he glances at the author’s name, it’s clearly Niflheimir.

An odd choice for a Lucian, slave, commoner, or noble himself. The last book is an even odder choice; it is certainly a romance novel, featuring a drawing of an elegant woman with Noctis’s coloring swooning into a pair of well-muscled, tattooed arms. The title, when Ardyn works out the script, is _The Queen’s Shield_. Ardyn looks up at the Shield with an eyebrow raised. “Are you quite certain this is what you intended me to read?”

“Oh yeah,” Gladiolus says, deadpan serious. “Should help you figure out what a Shield actually does. Read that _after_ you check out the Amicitia line in that _Royal History_.”

The history will help him put what he’s learned of the past Lucian kings in context, and the novel promises to be at least a diversion. Ardyn nods. “Very well. My thanks, Shield to the Prince.”

Gladiolus makes a dismissive noise. “Just keeping you from being stupid.”

“I appreciate that. I have misstepped one time too many, I fear.”

“More than that,” the Shield replies. “Don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”

“I would not dare to assume such.” Ardyn looks down at the books, and his fingers curl around their covers.

The Shield leaves him then and Ardyn is glad enough of it. He has more than enough to think about without any more revelations that might occur during the course of their conversation.

There is of course the question of whether the Lucians are still lying to him, for whatever nefarious purposes of their own, but he can start with these volumes and branch out to others. With enough information Ardyn may be able to filter out the propaganda and bias to come to some version of the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

Ardyn begins the lineage of Lucis that very evening, eager to begin putting some of his confusion to rest. There is no introduction; instead the author dives directly in to the story of the Founder King. The image illustrating Somnus is a photograph of a stone statue with a serene expression to which Ardyn takes an immediate, irrational dislike.

He finds the Amicitias at the side of the Lucis Caelums from the very start; the second Shield to the King, son of a man called - in a stroke of cruelly coincidental fate - Gilgamesh, takes the name Amicitia, which means _friend_ in the language of Solheim, when his patron ascends. And ever since, it seems, the Amicitias have been called Shields to the King. The giant bird of prey winding its way over the second Shield’s arm is strikingly similar to Gladiolus’s own tattoo.

Ardyn does not, truly, find such a connection so different from slavery, but the Shield was very adamant on that point. Noctis is many things, few of them flattering, but he is not a slave-owner, at least.

The history makes a great deal of that change to Lucian law, perhaps protesting slightly too strongly, Ardyn thinks, but the outcome is as the Shield said; he is free to act of his own accord, when he does not serve the Prince. It is in keeping with this that the Prince does not seem to be aware at all of his Shield’s violent actions, nor the reason for them. Ardyn must puzzle, then, what protective instinct would make Gladiolus risk censure over Noctis’s lover.

He has more than enough time to think on it, and to complete the book, besides. Not so surprising perhaps, but Ardyn cannot remember the last time he had so many hours free at a stretch. At first it is almost a luxury; after two days of near solitude, speaking only to his MTs and the Crownsguard at his door, it is not so wonderful as he had always thought it might be to have no demands on his time.

Noctis is entirely absent from his life; when he leaves his rooms, he rarely sees any man or woman willing to speak to him, though there are enough human servants running around the Citadel. Ardyn is a person who generally enjoys being around people; if he can’t speak to them, merely being in a crowd will suffice. But there are certainly no crowds in the Citadel, and he hasn’t the nerve yet to test the limits of his Crownsguard-shaped leash. Deprived of conversation, he catches himself monologuing to the open air, ZG-08905, GR-00304, and NH-02141 staring at him impassively with their glowing red eyes.

He has never considered, he realizes, what MTs might do when they are not on duty. At home he kept a dozen, and they rarely stopped work except to charge their armor. Here, though Ardyn has them do what little fetching and carrying he requires, they have what could be time to themselves if they cared for such things. It seems, however, that they do not. As soon as Ardyn dismisses them, they retire to parade rest at the corner of the room. If he leaves them long enough they close their eyes. The sound of his voice keeps their attention on him, however, so much of his reading has become a performance, complete with commentary.

A knock on his door on the third day interrupts one of these little skits of his, and he opens the door still laughing at his own wit, to be faced with Prompto once again.

“Tell me, do the Lucii always keep their princes shut up in towers?” Ardyn asks it without preamble. “Do say yes. I shall be growing my hair into a rope to escape with, next, if I find this is special treatment.”

The little MT takes a step back, but rallies admirably. “Probably easier to tear up your bedsheets. I wouldn’t go out your window, though. Just the inner courtyard down there.”

Ardyn can feel the corner of his lip turning up; despite his discomfort with the way it’s been raised, there _is_ something different about this MT - at the least, none of his could possibly be expected to respond to a joke. “I shall take that under advisement, and you have my thanks. Is my presence, by some miracle, required?”

“I’m just here to tell you that we’ve got a delegation from Niflheim coming in next week. Noct is going to be part of the talks.”

“And has he requested that I attend him? Marvelous,” Ardyn replies, when the MT nods.

Prompto hands Ardyn the thin folder he is carrying. “That’s got the details and the guest list. Ignis said let your Crownsguard know if you have any questions.”

“I shall. Please, give him and Noctis my thanks. I look forward to it.”

“I will. Uh. Have fun with your… thing.” Prompto’s eyes flick over Ardyn’s shoulder, as though it might find guests, or an audience, in Ardyn’s rooms. Ardyn knows that it has seen its cousins, all watching Ardyn still, since they have not been told to stand down.

Ardyn smiles, and laughs when Prompto’s eyebrows furrow. He sweeps a bow to the concerned MT as it scurries back out the door again.

 

—

 

Ardyn does not see Noctis, or anyone else that he might wish to, in the lead up to the arrival of the delegation. He does not mind it so much now, he supposes; the thought of getting to see his countrymen, even some of his relatives, is enough to keep his spirits up. He is also making his way through more of the _Medical_ section of the library, and so he keeps the flask of healing magic in his pocket at all times. In some small way, it feels like Noctis -perhaps it is how it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The smell of ozone. Ardyn finds it pleasant, and does not dwell overmuch on why.

On the day that the Niflheimers are due to arrive, there is unaccustomed activity in the palace, dozens of servants and retainers rushing through halls that Ardyn typically has to himself. Ardyn is in the thick of it; he has dressed in clothing from home, and plaited his hair, and he feels much more like himself as he wanders through the hubbub. It is not that he is able to disappear in the crowd, exactly, but he draws less attention when there are less familiar foreigners soon to arrive.

When the appointed time for the landing draws near, Ardyn makes directly for the throne room, as does almost every other person in the Citadel, it seems. He is lucky enough that his rank and his retinue make it simple enough for him to slip through the masses of Crownsguard and servants and find Noctis, standing at the base of the stairs that lead to the throne of Lucis. Noctis jumps when Ardyn takes his place at his left hand.

Ardyn offers him a smile and a politely sketched bow. “I am most pleased to see you, my dearest,” he says.

“Uh, you too,” Noctis says. “Glad you could make it.” After his slip, he retreats into his perfect, impassive mask.

Ardyn simply cannot help himself; he takes his husband’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Do calm yourself, dear heart,” he says, in a whisper not truly quiet enough to remain private.

“I’m _fine_.” Noctis cannot pull his hand away, not in front of half the court and all the gods, but he looks very much as though he wants to. His fingers wrap more tightly around Ardyn’s, instead.

They stand together as the entire Niflheimir delegation files past them and is introduced. His uncle has sent nine men and three women, each of them more or less distant relatives of Ardyn’s, and he kisses cheeks and clasps arms with his cousins with real enthusiasm. Noctis is more reserved, but he does not miss a single step in the dance.

“I hadn’t thought I’d see you, Ardyn! There’s been nothing of you on the news,” Princess Tyrine says as she comes up to him. She keeps hold of his wrist as she looks him up and down. “You’re looking well.”

By this, Ardyn is quite certain, she means that she is shocked he still has all his limbs. Well, he is not any less surprised. Ignis and Gladiolus lurk behind Noctis, full-color illustrations of the lack of care Lucians have for their physical bodies, and Ardyn has seen more than one of his cousins cast them a nervous glance before bowing to their liege.

Ardyn switches to Niflheimer for a moment, not for secrecy - surely translators abound in this company - but for the sheer pleasure of it. “My new family has been welcoming,” he says. He lays a hand on Noctis’s shoulder, gently enough to avoid startling him, and Noctis turns and gives his cousin a polite smile.

“It could have been so much worse, couldn’t it?” Tyrine says, in the same language - it _is_ good to hear again, shockingly so. She changes again to Lucian to greet Noctis; her bow is as perfectly correct as her greeting to Ardyn. They have all learned their conquerors’ ways well.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess Tyrine,” Noctis replies. “You and Ardyn know each other?”

“The Princess is my cousin on our fathers’ side. We grew up together,” Ardyn says.

Tyrine smiles. “It is lovely to meet the young man my cousin speaks so highly of.” Ardyn has not spoken to her in months, even before the wedding, but he supposes that is neither here nor there.

Ardyn imagines, in the slight furrowing of Noctis’s brow, confusion as to why he is currently married to a man closer to his father’s age than his own, when there is a perfectly eligible young lady of the same family right here. He does not particularly wish to explain that Emperor Iedolas has never appreciated Ardyn’s gifts, and this would certainly be the wrong venue for it, after all.

“We’re honored to have you here, Princess. I hope that you enjoy your visit,” Noctis says. Tyrine makes her pleasantries and continues down the line, and Noctis’s attention is taken up by another of his guests.

—

Ardyn likes to think he performs admirably at the welcoming dinner. Much like at his wedding, there is little enough to trip over; he only has to keep up his happy husband facade in order to protect the interests of both of his countries. His cousins help him in this, conversing mostly in pretty and meaningless words about the new peace. But of course, they would not be his family if they did not possess an instinct to poke sleeping malboros.

“Tell me, cousin, how are you settling into married life? I never took you for the type,” Tyrine says, over a glass of Cleigne white before dessert. A few of the Lucian nobility glance over at her, and a few of the Niflheim nobility do more than glance, whispering between themselves and leaning forwards.

Ardyn is glad that he, at least, has kept his head about him this evening, and he is able to respond smoothly. “I find it suits me well. Perhaps it is as Emperor Iedolas said, and I only needed to find a good spouse to settle me.”

“You must be very happy here.”

“I never imagined that the charms of Lucis would be so extensive,” Ardyn replies. “I intend to have Noctis take me on a grand tour when the peace talks are settled. The Crown City is delightful, but I should like to become more acquainted with my new land.”

Ardyn and Noctis are several seats apart at the table - it seems one does not sit married couples together at such events - but Ardyn can still see Noctis’s spine stiffen at Ardyn’s words, innocuous as they are.

“But, truly, I am pleased that I was able to contribute to a lasting peace between our nations. That such a wonderful partner was chosen for me was simply good fortune. ” Ardyn watches Noctis as he speaks; a little lovestruck staring is surely forgivable. Noctis does not turn his head, though Ardyn imagines he must feel his eyes on him, and eventually Ardyn gives up.

Tyrine is smiling at him when he turns back to her. “You don’t miss home? We’ve scarcely heard anything of you since you left.”

“I must admit, I have taken to the court here so well that I have thought of Niflheim very little, save when my new friends here are curious. Some of my husband’s courtiers are very interested in our culture; I’ve taught Gladiolus a little of our language.”

From the way his jaw tenses, Ardyn thinks that Noctis hears him, but he merely shakes his head and turns to speak to the Lucian noblewoman sitting across the table from him.

Tyrine glances over to Noctis’s end of the table, scanning the faces of his retainers behind him. “Gladiolus is…”

“The very tall young man attending my husband,” Ardyn tells her. Tyrine’s skeptical expression when her eyes alight on his scarred face speaks volumes.

“I agree, he looks a brute, but he is shockingly well-read,” he continues, not so quietly as he ought, but there is no reaction from further down the table. Alas, his fun is over; Noctis has managed to ignore him once again.

At the end of dinner King Regis rises and announces that the young people are welcome to retire to the salon and continue their conversation. Ardyn naturally assumes that such a designation does not apply to him, but as they are filing out of the dining hall, Noctis takes his arm and says, “We have to be there.” Ardyn is not sure whether to take offense or be flattered. He settles on wary pleasure. Coerced or not, he is happy to spend time in Noctis’s company.

Noctis has barely escorted Ardyn out of the hall when he goes off course; he leads Ardyn a little way down a side hall, waving Ardyn’s ever-present minders away. For these few brief moments, they are alone. Ardyn dares to hope that Noctis might have something to say to him in private.

He does, though it is not precisely what Ardyn had dreamed of. Noctis drops his arm and rounds on him once he is sure they are out of sight. “What was that about at dinner?” he asks.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” Ardyn says. Alone, it seems more prudent to drop pet names and words of affection. 

“What you were saying to the Princess,” Noctis says flatly.

“I assure you, my words were diplomacy and nothing more.”

Noctis turns away from him. “Sure. Look, you don’t have to talk about this stuff like that.” 

“Unless you suddenly begin to treat me as your husband in truth, I shall continue to prevaricate,” Ardyn snaps. “Or if you wish, perhaps I could _tell_ them the truth. Shall I let them know how little affection you bear for me, and have them take insult?”

It is a dangerous thing to say, since the consequences for Lucis will be so much less dire than those for Niflheim if this marriage breaks down, but it is almost worth it to Ardyn to see Noctis’s face twist in a scowl. 

“No, that’s not what I meant. I thought you were planning to forget we were married.”

“I can hardly do so in public.”

Noctis sighs. “I wish we could.”

“As do I,” Ardyn admits. It would suit him better, overall, not to have his mind filled with thoughts of Noctis at every turn, but he cannot banish his untoward thoughts without forgetting his place entirely. “I am afraid I must speak grandly to convince them. I am not known for being taciturn.”

“Fine. Do what you need to,” Noctis concedes. His lips press together as though he is trying to keep himself from speaking; and then he turns his head away, and offers Ardyn his arm again. “Let’s go. We can’t be too late or…”

“They might assume that we newlyweds have gone off to be alone! Which would be tragic, surely.” Ardyn ignores Noctis’s offered arm in favor of leaning down far enough to take his hand. Noctis stands up straighter and leads the way without looking in Ardyn’s direction even once.

The salon is large, with glass windows on three sides - a luxury Ardyn is learning to enjoy, here in Insomnia where winter does not strike long or hard - and enough couches and armchairs for a small army. Half the Niflheimir contingent and a few of the younger Lucians are gathered in knots of conversation. 

“We don’t have to sit together,” Noctis says under his breath. “Or stay that late. Just enough to be friendly.”

“Understood,” Ardyn says. He kisses the back of Noctis’s hand before he releases it, but this time the gesture does not surprise his husband, and Ardyn earns no more than a twitch of his fingers. He shall have to be more creative.

They break off to opposite ends of the room, and Ardyn is soon surrounded by his countrymen, all ready with a kiss on his cheek and an exclamation of their happiness at seeing him. He takes a seat between Lord Hector and Prince Fallon and soon finds a glass of sweet liquor being pressed into his hand. 

“ _You must tell me all of what has been happening at home,_ ” Ardyn says, right away. His desire for information is honest; he has had so little news that does not come through the Lucian media. But his haste is not; he would not allow them to get a question in edgewise, if he is not allowed to either tell the truth or to lie convincingly without angering his husband.

“ _What can we say? Everything is about the peace treaty right now_ ,” Prince Fallon says, but he is kind enough to launch into a story about the Crown Prince’s latest ridiculous attempt at improving the country’s morale. Ardyn is always as happy to hear such tales as Fallon is happy to share them; the Crown Prince is but half their age, of no verifiable heritage, and so innocent that the idea of his ascending the throne is a good joke in and of itself. 

Before too long, Gladiolus stands from his place by Noctis’s side. Ardyn’s attentions are half on his own companions and half on Noctis, and so he is somewhat surprised when the man appears between himself and Lord Hector.

“ _Well met, noble lords,_ ” he says, in a passible imitation of Ardyn’s accent. His cousins glance between themselves and burst into genteel titters. 

“ _You’ve taught him ancient history,_ ” Fallon says, and Ardyn grins, sipping his drink and pretending not to be floored by Gladiolus’s knowledge, dated as it is.

“ _He is more like a character out of ancient history than anything else,_ ” Ardyn replies.Gladiolus stands quietly, a pleasant smile fixed on his face, and Ardyn wonders how much he’s understood. 

“ _Sit down with us,_ ” he says, and Gladiolus understands that much at least; he comes around Ardyn’s chair and takes a seat beside him, slipping comfortably into their circle.

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, that’s about as far as we got,” he says in Lucian. “Let me know how bad my accent is.”

“We shall have to continue the lessons,” Ardyn replies. 

Tyrine smiles, and Hector laughs, and it does not take too much effort for Ardyn to set them all talking about places and things they want to see while they are in Insomnia. Gladiolus is helpful in this, suggesting different parks and buildings where they might be escorted by their Crownsguard attendants. 

Ardyn sneaks glances over Gladiolus’s shoulder at Noctis whenever he can, not bothering to be too subtle about it; every so often he catches Noctis’s suspicious storm-cloud gaze on him. After the second or third time this happens, he makes a point of leaning towards Gladiolus, and tucking a strand of the man’s wild hair into the Galhadian-style braid he wears. Gladiolus gives him an odd look but does not protest, and Ardyn waits for his familiarity to be objected to.

Only a few moments later, Ardyn hears a polite cough at his back, heralding the arrival of one of his husband’s retainers. He turns slightly to see Prompto standing behind him, hands clasped behind its back.

“Sorry, Prince Ardyn,” the MT says. “But Noctis wants you.”

Ardyn glances over towards his husband, who meets his gaze without flinching. In the interest of not alarming his cousins, he bites back his first sarcastic retort, and rises to his feet. “ _I shall return in a moment_ ,” he tells them. 

Noctis meets Ardyn halfway, and pulls him into a small alcove presided over by some statue of one of his ancestors. It is well that Ardyn is not given to feeling shame, or the man’s empty marble stare would no doubt induce it. Noctis’s own glare is, for once, much more intense; Ardyn nearly revels in the heat of it, after Noctis’s earlier blankness.

“What have I done to offend you?” Ardyn asks, his tone hushed. There is enough conversation amongst the others in the room that he is not too concerned they are overheard, but he does not wish to encourage any eavesdroppers.

“We already talked about this,” Noctis says.

“I doubt very much that you mind my saying kind things about your country and your hospitality,” Ardyn muses. “Please, enlighten me as to the true source of your anger.”

Noctis colors prettily, and folds his arms, trying and failing to bring back that emotionless mask of his. “You were flirting with Gladio.”

Ardyn laughs; the idea that he might initiate anything in that direction is absurd, Gladiolus’s recent solicitousness notwithstanding. “If anything, your Shield is the one who opened relations with me. I do apologize for forgetting myself; I shall endeavor to do better in future.”

Noctis scowls. “Okay, fine, if that’s what you want,” he says. 

“You still do not seem pleased,” Ardyn observes. In case anyone is watching them, he leans forward, and places his hand on the side of Noctis’s face, hiding his stormy expression from view.

Noctis allows it, at any rate, though the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. “You promised not to break us up,” he says. 

“Gladiolus informs me that he is his own man, and does not take orders from you except in his professional life. Did he lie?” 

“No,” Noctis says, though he cannot meet Ardyn’s eyes as he does. “He can do what he wants. But he’s still _mine_.”

Ardyn pauses before he replies. He had not considered that Gladiolus, too, might have some claim on Noctis greater than his own. But then, he knows that the Shield and the MT are more entangled than is perhaps correct for two retainers in a royal household. This, then. This is what he is facing; not a tragic love affair, but a prince whose attentions are already spread too thin to allow Ardyn so much as a scrap.

“My dear Prince Noctis, I said before that I did not intend to disrupt your... affairs, and my word is good. Would you begrudge an old man his limited entertainments?”

Noctis will not meet his eyes anymore. With his arms folded, even in his formal finery, he looks every bit as young as he is. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I know Specs hasn’t gotten the paperwork yet for your phone or anything. I was hoping you’d get a chance to catch up with your people tonight.”

Ardyn swallows his first three or four responses. “There is no need for apologies. I am well aware that these things take time, and your advisor’s dedication to security does him credit. I shall certainly take advantage of your generosity.”

Noctis opens his mouth to reply, but Ardyn cuts him off with a quick, nearly affectionate kiss; in his surprise, Noctis does not pull away. Would that Ardyn could take advantage of it in the way he would like, but he keeps himself under control and lets Noctis go.

“ _My husband is eager to retire_ ,” he tells his cousins, when he returns to their circle. Gladiolus and Prompto have both returned to the Lucian group, for which Ardyn is grateful.

“ _Afraid you won’t have the energy for him later?_ ” Fallon asks. 

Ardyn laughs. “ _Polite Lucian company does not admit to such things,_ ” he replies. “ _I shall fetch one more drink, and then I shall see where the evening takes us._ ”

“ _Enjoy yourself,_ ” Hector says.

There are waiters all about the room, holding trays of Lucian wine and Niflheimir liquor; Ardyn takes a glass from the closest one, and turns back to retake his seat. He is stopped, however, by a familiar figure in his path.

“Mr. Scientia,” he says, as politely as he can manage.

“Your Highness,” Ignis says, his voice revealing nothing. “A moment of your time.”

“By all means,” Ardyn replies. 

“Please limit yourself to Lucian in this company,” Ignis tells him, in low tones. “His Highness wishes to be able to take part in any conversation.”

Ardyn glances across the room to Noctis, who is deep in conversation with his MT and three of the younger Niflheimers. He doubts that Noctis has noticed much of Ardyn’s conversation with anyone but his retainers. Still, he smiles politely at the advisor. “Of course, Mr. Scientia. I shall keep that in mind.”

When Ardyn returns again to his seat, he switches back to Lucian, but the ease he’d felt in the company of his countrymen slips away as their language does. He’d intended to draw out his time here as long as he could; instead he drains his glass quickly and excuses himself. With a smile and a light remark, it’s simple to convince them that he’s simply eager to return to his marital chambers.

He comes up behind Noctis and drapes himself over his shoulders, casually intimate in a way that he wishes were not just for show. He kisses Noctis on the cheek and says, “You have an early morning tomorrow, do you not?”

Truly, he cannot tell himself if he is in fact tipsy, or he’s playing it up for effect. Either way Noctis turns to him, takes in the flush across his cheeks, and sighs. “I guess so,” he says. “Sorry, everyone. Duty calls.” Noctis’s Niflheimir company is good enough to assume that he is being quietly ironic, though Ardyn knows the Lucians are not so fooled.

Noctis stands and comes around to escort him out, but he does not offer his arm, this time. They are quickly attended by his three retainers - no, his three _consorts_ , Ardyn corrects himself. For why should he think that Noctis has not availed himself of all three of his closest companions? He has not proven himself inhibited in his affairs.

Ardyn only has time to stew further as he follows Noctis down the hall, all five of their company as silent as the grave. To be put aside for his husband’s beloved Ardyn could take, though not, he must admit, with grace; the idea has a certain romantic dignity to it. To be ignored in favor of a harem is pure insult.

As they arrive at the turn between the two royal apartments, Ardyn pretends to sway on his feet. Gladiolus is solicitous enough to step forward and offer his own arm when Noctis does not; Ardyn takes the support with pleasure and perhaps more bodily contact than is strictly required.

Noctis looks their way only once before he breaks off to his own rooms, but Ardyn glimpses the anger in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever have one of those chapters where you're like, fuck this, I just don't want to look at it anymore?
> 
> That was this chapter.
> 
> I swear Ardyn's gonna make out with somebody next time.


End file.
